Until the End and Back Again
by Sachehund
Summary: In the aftermath of the second battle for Hoover Dam, the unforeseen consequences of a political snafu send Veronica, Col. Moore, the mutants of Jacobstown and many others on an interlocking collision course with the East Coast Brotherhood. Adult themes
1. A False Sense of Security

This sucker is undergoing revisions at the moment, so pick through chapters even if you've read them before. The content hasn't changed significantly, but some dialogue tweaks and additional information is scattered through a lot of chapters. This story has already undergone heavy revisions from it's kinkmeme version (where it was birthed~), and I feel it's a lot stronger for it. Some notes before we proceed:

**Technically a Crossover**: At least in the sense that it draws from several canon sources under the Fallout games. They include: Fallout 3, F:NV, Fallout: Tactics, and of course, FO1/FO2. There is also some passing reference to _Van Buren _design documents.

**Fair Warning**: This is rated M for a variety of reasons. One is adult content. There is a chapter in here that has some woman-on-woman smoochy-time, there will undoubtedly be woman-on-man smoochy-time, and there will definitely be more of both in the future. Other reasons for the rating are as follows: language, violence, and decidedly dark themes (read: body horror), but that doesn't come up until much later.

As always, I welcome all comments and criticisms. Be as brutal or as light-hearted as your little heart desires, but if you ARE leaving criticism, please try to keep it constructive.

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><p>[ <strong>1<strong> :: A False Sense of Security ]

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><p>Throughout history, many great wars, and the years of struggle that come with them, are distilled, defined, and given meaning by the actions of the combatants on both sides. Decisive victory alone determines the worth of a campaign, and the costs, however great, can be temporarily pushed to the wayside.<p>

At Hoover Dam, that hard-won victory belonged solely to the NCR, the mark the burgeoning Republic had sought to place on history emblazoned across bullet-scored concrete in swaths of charred black and deep red. The fate of the Mojave, held in limbo for years, had finally fallen into their hands, however broken and bloodied the spoils of war were in the aftermath. Camp Forlorn Hope and Camp Golf had already taken significant casualties, and McCarran's fate, the troops stationed there still fighting to repel a surprise attack from the Fiends, still hung in the balance. But for those that worked to take stock of the situation, the worst of it was over. For now, at least, they'd made good of their efforts, and for many of the soldiers that returned from the battlefield, that, alone, was enough to make the cost seem worthwhile.

Across the war-torn expanse of the road that spanned across the massive hydroelectric plant, the riptide of activity that engulfed the region mere hours ago had calmed considerably, every able-bodied soldier and civilian doing their best to pick up the pieces. Prisoners were taken into makeshift holding cells, the dead hauled away and dealt with in accordance to their allegiances, the injured tended to by small teams of overworked medics... In the wake of such a furious conflict, it seemed almost irreverent that engineers who had fled the scene had returned to resume their duties. In the end, it was just as much a silent nod to necessity as every burn scar and blood spatter that dotted the pavement. It was just another version of it.

Seated on sidewalk in front of the Visitor's Center, Veronica had, for a time, watched all of it intently, the surreal calm that had fallen over the area allowing her the time to take it all in, if only in bits and pieces; ultimately, however, the majority of her attention had turned to the injuries sustained in the heat of battle. Having tried and failed to administer a few stimpaks on her own, her arms had proven to be too weakened by waning adrenaline and significant blood loss, her rather comical attempts at getting the healing process started bringing her to the attention of the courier. It was decided that, after the scribe had been passed up by triage in favor of those more severely wounded, she would be placed in the hands of one of the courier's colleagues for a little assistance. It wasn't completely unappreciated, but being tended to by a rowdy gunslinger? Would not have been her first choice.

"Careful," Veronica hissed, resisting the urge to recoil as Cass jabbed at a deep wound along her upper arm with a fresh stimpak.

"Quit your bitching," Cass chided her. "It's only temporary. These things are about as useful as tits on a Cazador if you don't apply 'em directly to the wound."

"I know, I know," Veronica said, voice strained by the shocks of pain that came with the compression of the syringe's plunger. "Doesn't mean you have to dig around like that. The way you're stabbing at me, you'd think I called your mother a two-bit whore."

Cass arched an eyebrow as she withdrew the needle from the ragged edge of a particularly nasty wound. "Did you?"

"No. I'm just saying."

"Good." She sunk the needle into the opposite edge of the gash, emptying the remainder of the stimpak's contents into the scribe's skin. "'Cause that's 'four-bit whore' to you."

Veronica favored Cass with a wry smile, the expression dropping as another wave of pain rushed over her already addled nerve endings. "I'll try to remember that," she said, trying not to grit her teeth.

"See that you do," Cass retorted playfully, withdrawing the needle and discarding the syringe into an ever-growing pile at her feet. "Need anything to take the edge off?" she asked as she prepared another round, offering that as a small concession to her utter lack of expertise.

"I'm fine," Veronica said in a half-assed attempt to reassure her. "But if you don't mind, I think I'd rather do the next round myself."

Cass snorted, eying the scribe incredulously. "I don't mind. But you might. You sure you're more coordinated than I am?"

Veronica grinned, unable to resist coming back with, "I'm pretty sure a blind quadriplegic would be more coordinated than you are."

Cass chuckled. "Oh yeah?" She nodded to Veronica's free hand and said, "Hold up your arm for a second," her own arm raising out in front of her to illustrate, "like this."

Following the instruction, Veronica knew she'd be eating her own words in no time. The loss of blood was still getting to her, her entire arm trembling as she held her hand out in front of her.

"Yep," Cass said with a self-satisfied nod. "Shakin' like a cracked-out Jet monkey. But hey, if you still feel like taking the do-it-yourself approach..."

"You made your point," Veronica conceded, letting her arm drape back over her upturned knees.

"Can't say it wouldn't be fun to watch you give it a try," Cass remarked absently. "Not so fun to clean up."

"Would be if you were the one doing all the cleaning." Veronica smirked. "Get you a french maid's outfit, a couple loofas..."

"Woah, there, tiger," Cass said, smiling wryly. "If anyone's gonna be wearing miniskirts and twirling loofas, it'll be you."

Veronica pursed her lips. "Forget I said anything, then."

Cass nodded, clearly amused as she went about the business of sticking the needle into one of the slower-healing portions of the larger wound. Veronica winced, doing her best to keep her eyes averted; the pressure of the syringe made the coral-pink strata of sub-dermis puff up in ways she didn't care to see. It seemed ridiculous, having such a strong aversion to catching sight of it after witnessing all the excessive carnage that war tended to bring- but she allowed for it.

Funny, though, that she would choose to look to the scattered remains of the dead for a suitable distraction.

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><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>The impromptu foray into medicine completed, Cass excused herself to check in on the young courier, having seen neither hide nor hair of the girl since the fighting began, not that the absence came as any big surprise. Kette Hazhir was better at being a penny-pinching hoarder than she was at engaging in combat, preferring to pay, or persuade others to do the heavy lifting for her, though it wasn't for lack of skill. As a result, the heavily armored veteran Rangers that had been deployed from Baja had done the bulk of the legwork, fighting for every inch of ground as they stormed the Legate's camp with a platoon's worth of troopers at their back.<p>

The Legate, himself, was not so quick to fall, but according to those that survived the assault- Boone and, of course, the be-hooded young woman she'd just finished tending among them- the ensuing battle had been something to behold. Seemed a shame that Cass was too wrapped up in holding the proverbial fort to see it, herself; she'd wanted to, more than anything, but instead, she'd done what she could to help the soldiers on the main drag fend off the worst of the continued assault. They hadn't been reluctant to accept her into their ranks, provided she paid attention to their movements and objectives, laying down covering fire but staying as far out of their way as possible.

It may not have been the most 'glamorous' position to take, but it was one that she could abide. Not everyone could be a glory hound, though she suspected that Boone had other objectives in mind when he'd rushed his way into the front lines. She'd talk to him about it later, perhaps, over a couple beers once a celebration was underway. Or not. Knowing Boone, 'or not' was probably the more likely course their conversation would take. But that was fine; that was his prerogative, and he was allowed to hold his silence.

Inwardly, however, she was pleased to see he'd made it out alright, the hobbled scribe's arm slung around his shoulders as he helped her limp her way back to relative safety.

As for the courier, Cass eventually found her picking through the piled-up remains of fallen Legionaries, proving herself to be every bit the scavenger her reputation made her out to be.

"If you find a hat in there somewhere," Cass said, loud enough to make sure she was heard, "hand it over. One of these self-righteous dogfuckers shot it straight off my head while I was covering your sorry ass."

"How about this?" Kette didn't even bother to look up when she answered. Typical. Amusing, but typical. She chucked a helmet with a crimson, peacock-fan crest on the top, the laughable headgear clattering to a halt a few yards from Cass's feet. "Could get some decent mileage out of it."

Cass snorted, canting her head at the offering. "Yeah, as a human featherduster." Beat. "How long you gonna be digging around in there?"

"However long it takes to get all this schwag together," Kette replied, straightening from her crouched position over the bodies, barely seeming to notice the bits of Centurion hanging off her knees. "Why? You got somewhere you gotta be?"

Shrugging, Cass said, "I figure there's gonna be plenty to celebrate here, soon. Be worth it to take a breather."

"Hm." Kette made a show of considering what she'd been told, placing her hands out like scales. "Party... Schwag... Party... Schwag..." She glanced over at Cass, raising the 'schwag' hand dramatically. "The scales have spoken," she informed the gunslinger in a deadpan. "Come on, Cass, get with the program. There's no way I'm letting a haul like this slip through my fingers."

Cass chuckled, shaking her head dismissively, her attention turning back towards the Visitor's Center, not in any way surprised by the answer. "Fucking jackal is what you are," she muttered under her breath, hands slipping into the pockets of her jeans. "I'm goin' even if you're not. Can't say no to a good party."

"I can."

They lapsed into silence as Kette continued to shift bodies hither, thither, yon and fro in the hopes of getting to the items worth selling. Cass, meanwhile, found her attention caught by the young woman she'd left back at the Center. It wasn't so much Veronica herself that raised the gunslinger's curiosity, it was the company she kept... namely, the small group of Brotherhood Paladins standing around chatting with her. Nagging at her? It was unhappy, whatever it was, judging by what little she could see.

Seeing the Brotherhood at all was odd enough; that they showed up to fight alongside the NCR had absolutely blown her mind. But seeing them hassle the girl for no apparent reason? That... made her wonder.

_Doesn't matter if there is a truce on,_ she thought, able to see Veronica's posture deflate regardless of the distance between them; the shift in her demeanor was surprisingly profound.

_They're still a bunch of assholes._

"Wonder what that was about," Cass remarked absently, idly deliberating over whether or not she should go see what happened.

"What?"

"Nothin'," Cass said, her decision- helped along by the rather boring prospect of watching Kette's obsessive sorting- made easily. "If you need any help hauling this crap back to home base, let me know. I'm gonna be over by the Visitor's Center."

"Sure."

Cass chuckled. _Not even paying attention._ "Right, then..." she muttered, making her way back towards the crestfallen scribe.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>"Must be nice," Paladin Todd had said as he passed the former scribe, "getting all cozy with the NCR."<p>

His tone said more than the words themselves did. Part question, part threat, all neatly wrapped in a veneer of spiteful hostility, it made Veronica bristle, a steely look shot in the Paladin's direction.

Raising to her feet gingerly, she said, "And I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that you're getting just as 'cozy?'" her impatience eking into her tone.

"We're following orders," he replied. "You're following opportunity."

"Oh, yeah," she replied flatly. "Showed up for a complimentary mauling, stayed for the ice-cream socials." Ignoring the aches and pains running through her limbs, all bidding her to sit back down, she said, "Not sure why you care, one way or another. Seems to me you've got more important things to do than hang around harassing a civilian. Might not look too good to your new buddies."

"Civilian?" Todd repeated, snorting derisively. He paused, then, deliberately double-checking to see that there were Rangers nearby, and made it a point to raise his voice as he said, "You were one of us, Veronica," purposefully stressing her name. "Going into self-imposed exile doesn't clear you of the responsibility that entails."

He did it on purpose, she knew. Did it to raise suspicions, did it to make her uncomfortable... and on both fronts, he'd succeeded. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the pair of rangers watching her carefully, taking an obvious interest. They hadn't lingered long after that, preferring instead to wander elsewhere along the main drag. Whether or not they cared, or planned on saying anything about the exchange, was up in the air; she just had to hope they had better things to do than drop mention of what they'd overheard.

Hearing a softly-stated, "Hey," from behind her, the familiar voice of the gunslinger pulling her out of the veritable whirlwind her thoughts had become, Veronica shot a wary glance over her shoulder, her gaze met with a tentative smile. "You okay?"

"I'll know in a while, I guess," she said, briefly turning her attention back in the direction of Todd and the others.

Cass arched an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Veronica said, walking back towards the Center's entrance to sit back down, "that I'm pretty sure I'm screwed."

"Why? ...This have something to do with those showboating dickheads you were talking to?"

"Oh, yeah," Veronica breathed, seating herself carefully, still a little too woozy to stay on her feet for long. "I'd say it has everything to do with them."

"What the hell did they want, anyway?"

_No sense in staying quiet about it now, is there?_

"They wanted..." Veronica stopped short of continuing to let out a humorless chuckle. "They wanted to make sure I wasn't about to spill any juicy secrets." _Again._

Something about seeing her in an NCR stronghold that must have made them anxious, with or without the Courier alongside her. She didn't blame them, really, but the way they presented it to her? Completely unnecessary. Unless she acknowledged that the four Paladins who'd tracked her hadn't gotten the chance to let the rest of the chapter know that yes, indeed, everyone's favorite turncoat got the message, and yes, they'd scared her shitless, _thank you very much_ and thanks for playing.

"What makes 'em think you've got any?"

Veronica looked up at Cass, her expression apprehensive, apologetic. The two had known each other for some time, but she still hadn't told the other woman much of anything about who, or what she was. Hadn't really told any of the people she'd been in close quarters with during her time with the Courier.

"It's just one of those things," she said, at long last. "You spend your whole life with a group like that, you tend to learn a lot about them."

Cass studied her quietly, her expression shifting from one of slight concern to one of realization. Unwilling to face what she was certain would come next, Veronica turned her eyes towards the ground.

"You're Brotherhood?"

"Was," Veronica said, her head lowering.

"...Huh."

Veronica chanced a glance upwards, surprised to find that the backlash she'd expected... wasn't happening. "You're not angry?"

"Just surprised, is all." Cass offered her a slight grin. "You sure don't _seem_ like an asshole."

In spite of all her concerns, Veronica was only too happy to offer a smile of her own, following it with a relieved chuckle. "No wonder I never fit in."

Cass's smile widened. "No wonder you _left_."

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>To anyone else, looting the bodies of dead Legionaries in spite of barely having lifted a finger in defense of the Dam might have seemed uncouth. Not so for Kette, though she did pause to think twice about the decision to take advantage of the situation when, out of her peripheral vision, she caught sight of two troopers approaching her from the direction of the Visitor's Center. Rather then let their deliberate gait deter her, she opted to continue sorting through the items she'd procured; if they had something to say about it, let them say it. If not, maybe they'd pass by.<p>

Or not.

The both of them stopped within a few feet of her, the older of the two clearing his throat and, without offering so much as a 'hello,' informing her that Colonel Moore, a woman she'd worked with closely over the past few months, wanted an audience with her. Immediately.

"What's it about?" she asked, feigning as much ignorance as she could.

"Don't know," he replied. "What I _do_ know, is that you'd better haul ass. The Colonel isn't gonna look kindly on being kept waiting."

Kette offered a faint smile that was more akin to a grimace than anything else. "She sound pissed?"

The soldier let out a short chuckle. "You could say that."

_Oh boy._

Raising to her feet, Kette glanced down at the collection she'd en massed at her feet, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth. "But I can keep the gear, right?" she asked, tentative.

"Assuming our boys haven't picked it up and put it to better use by the time you get out," the soldier said flatly. "Seriously, though, get a move on. Last thing I need is to get chewed out 'cause you decided to take your sweet time."

Tempted though she was to say she'd hurry if he stood watch over the pile of equipment, she knew better than to idle. At least, when it came to someone like Cassandra Moore. A veteran that had been involved in everything from counter-insurgency during her time with Special Ops, to frequent, often brutal engagements with both the Brotherhood and the Legion, she was not a woman one opted to keep waiting. Frequently credited for her intelligence, tactical prowess and, more often than not, sheer brutality, she didn't concern herself with moral pretenses, or engage in the same rhetoric Kette had heard around the Mojave from others, NCR or otherwise. She was blunt, to the point, unafraid of getting her hands dirty, and, by Kette's estimation, always on the lookout for duplicity.

So much so that when it came time to present what the courier saw as a completely innocuous proposal to form a truce between the Brotherhood and the NCR, the colonel had been quick with a rebuke, informing Kette in no uncertain terms that, had it been up to her, their collaboration would have ended right then and there. Forced to accept the truce as it stood, on the basis that there wasn't any time to backpedal, to go through with the original plan to blow the Hidden Valley bunker straight to hell, Moore had grudgingly given the courier the opportunity to continue working with the military. Ever since, there'd been some lingering, one-sided contempt between them... and that, more than anything else, was what made the prospect of a 'meeting' rather nerve-wracking.

Upon stepping into the colonel's office, Kette came face to face with a cold stare, the order for the guard standing watch over the door to leave them both alone making her decidedly uneasy. Jumping slightly at the sound of the heavy metal doors slamming shut, she was, in that moment, too distracted by the contemptuous gaze that was leveled on her to notice that nearly half of the office was charred black, the furniture and file cabinets ruined, presumably by the fires that had erupted during the fight. Adding to that was the faint smell that permeated the air- cooked meat, and burnt hair. Moore, for her part, looked as though she'd engaged in the battle, herself, an obvious tear opening the material of her fatigues from shoulder to elbow, the ripped edges host to dark, drying stains; the result of a machete blade meeting its mark, no doubt.

"You, uh-" Kette paused, and cleared her throat gently. "You get that looked at?" she asked, gesturing towards the older woman's arm.

Glancing down towards the site of the injury, Moore returned her eyes to the courier impatiently to say, "At the moment, that's the last thing you need to concern yourself with," her voice a dead-on reflection of the look in her eyes. "Now... I'm going to forego asking if you have any idea why I brought you down here, as I suspect whatever answer I get will be another load of bullshit."

"I- honestly have no id-"

"I'd just like to know," the colonel interrupted, "what the hell you were thinking when you decided to bring an enemy operative into _my_ back yard."

Kette blinked. "A _what_ now?"

"I'd suggest you don't play dumb with me," Moore said sternly. "A couple of the Rangers up topside said they overheard a brief conversation between the Paladins the Brotherhood dispatched and a friend of yours- the one that dresses like a jet-addled vagrant? Said they referred to her by name, spoke to her like she was, or at least _had_ been, one of their own."

Kette resisted the urge to smile at that; no way she'd be repeating it to Veronica anytime soon, or admitting that on that description alone, there was no way to feign ignorance when it came to who the colonel was referring to. It helped that the tone the older woman took, the implication behind those words, was a discomfiting one.

"Would it... be a problem if she had been?" Kette hedged reluctantly, after a pointed stare pulled her out of the time she'd taken to briefly consider going against the colonel's 'advice.'

Moore's expression turned incredulous, at that, her eyebrows arching. "Considering she was present when I gave you the order to take care of the Brotherhood? Same one that stood idly by as you went to great pains to try and convince me that this ill-conceived truce was a good idea? Why, yes," she said, adopting a sarcastic tone tinged with vitriol, "I'd say that presents a slight problem."

"Take it, uh... take it you're still a little ticked about that." Getting an impatient look by way of response, Kette cleared her throat again, and said, "Alright- okay, so... I can see how it might be a problem. But, two things. One? She's not a Brotherhood operative. Actually, she's not even _in_ the Brotherhood anymore. And two?" ...It wouldn't make much sense to say 'it's not your back yard,' would it? She tightened her lips into a thin line, letting out a light huff. "Okay, so granted, I can only think of one thing right now. But I promise, there's more."

"Not in the Brotherhood," Moore repeated, studying the courier's face intently. "She defected?"

"She did." Getting another pointed look, Kette said, "Hey, come on, I'm telling you the god's-honest truth, here. I've even got the burn scars to prove what happens when their exiles try to make a life for themselves. They were worried she'd go blabbing a bunch of their state secrets to topsiders, so they tracked her to a Followers' outpost... killed every last one of the poor bastards that worked there. Even tried to do the same to us."

As much as she was visibly loathe to consider what she was being told, Moore's expression softened somewhat, her eventual response decidedly less hostile. "We'd heard about that..." she said, considerate. "Though, considering the evidence that was left in the outpost itself, it could just as easily be assumed that the Fiends were responsible for the attack. They _do_ have a clearly defined motive, at least in terms of raiding the chem stores the Followers have on-hand." She paused, then, again taking a moment to consider. "That said," she continued, "if you can prove the Brotherhood was present, and moreover, that they were responsible, we may be able to get more out of these so-called peace negotiations than I'd anticipated."

"So, wait... the NCR investigated the attacks?"

"At the Followers' request," Moore replied. "It's rare that they reach out to us these days, but, given the circumstances of the attack, they thought it best to collaborate. Though, if you were present, I suppose that explains why the bodies we _did_ find were picked clean. No identification, no armor... Doesn't speak well of your own involvement in the matter."

"Veronica didn't want the whole chapter paying for what they did," Kette said, uneasily offering what truth she could in lieu of that added implication. "Said we should try and keep it quiet..."

"So the attack wasn't sanctioned by the Elder?"

"He spoke to me after the fact," Kette replied. "Figured he wouldn't bother if he wanted me dead along with her."

"Was he informed about what happened?"

"In a way... I mean. I brought him the dog tags."

"But he had no idea they'd tried to kill her."

"Figured he would've said something if that were the case," Kette said. "The man's good with subterfuge, but... he seemed genuinely surprised that they'd gone up topside in the first place."

"Why?"

"It's... not really my place to say."

Moore arched an eyebrow. "Lucky for you it's besides the point," she said flatly. "At the moment, I'm more interested in the matter at hand. Given there were a pair of Rangers present for the conversation that 'outed' Ms. Santangelo's past affiliations, it's only a matter of time before that information spreads. That, in turn, necessitates some means of proving that she's no longer with the Brotherhood in the first place."

"Why is it necessary to _prove_ that?"

Moore gave Kette a withering look. "Do I really need to explain this to you?"

"I- guess so?"

"There's timing to consider," Moore said with an exasperated sigh. "She was present when I gave the signal to destroy the bunker. If she learned anything else during her visit here- points of access, vulnerabilities, computer codes, then she could have given that information to the rest of her chapter. Gave them an edge. It'd make sense to call a truce, then, give us a false sense of security so we, in turn, would give _them_ some breathing room."

"Give them time to launch an attack," Kette said, completing the thought posited.

"Exactly."

"No. I can assure you," Kette told her, "even if Veronica were here to gather intel? It wouldn't matter. No one would listen to her. They'd accept tactical advice from a bag of yeast before they'd go to her."

Moore arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I know my word might not be worth much on this one," Kette began, unable to suppress a smile upon hearing the Colonel respond with a derisive snort. "Thanks," she said wryly. "But I can say definitively that from what I saw? The way she tells it, no one even bothered to read her reports when she was with them in the first place. Just sent her outside to get her to stop talking all her usual nonsense about, you know... helping people."

"Helping people?" Moore repeated, eyebrow raised.

"She wanted the Brotherhood to adopt a platform similar to the Followers," Kette said. "Didn't go over well."

"I can imagine." Pausing to consider, Moore turned her attention towards the far end of the room. "And the truce," she said, returning her gaze to Kette. "Was that her idea, or yours?"

"Hers," Kette replied. "Though... I wasn't... really looking forward to having to take 'em out."

"That much I gathered," Moore said, underwhelmed. "Either way, if she had something to do with the truce, there may be a way to run damage control on this. But for that, I'll need to speak to her myself."

"You're not... gonna shoot her or anything, are you?" Kette asked, smiling halfheartedly.

"Not unless she gives me a reason to."

"That's not the most comforting thing I've ever heard, but... better than nothing, I suppose."

"So," Moore said, eyeing Kette evenly, "if I make the arrangements, you'll see to it that she makes an appearance?"

"Yeah," Kette said, nodding. "Yeah, I will. Just- if you're gonna talk to her..."

"Yes?"

"Well... it's just a thought, but- if you're gonna talk to her anyway, I have an idea that could make this whole thing a little more worth your while."

Moore arched an eyebrow slightly, arms crossing loosely over her chest as she studied the courier's face. "Go on," she said, allowing Kette the opportunity to speak.

Whether or not she listened was, of course, another matter entirely.


	2. Well Founded Fear

I feel now is a good time to run through 'things I am taking liberties with.' One: that you can, in fact, solve some of the sillier diplomatic 'quests' in a different way. Two: that 'Blood and Guts' Moore isn't nearly as one-dimensional as she's made out to be by the people who talk about her in-game. Three: that NCR policies take things like the Geneva Convention into account when they're hashing out diplomatic ties to groups that they now recognize as having some sovereignty.

Also, I'm gonna be fleshing out a bit more of the actual peace treaty between the Brotherhood and the NCR, so beware excessive politicking.

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><p>[ <strong>2<strong> :: Well-Founded Fear ]

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><p>The time it took to gather all the equipment together had seemed to drag on for ages. Kette had asked that both Cass and Veronica stand watch over the items she had laid claim to as she went into a meeting with some of the NCR officials, and hadn't returned for some time. When she'd finally returned, she had asked them both to help her haul the overwhelming bounty she'd collected back to the Lucky 38. Aside from being incredibly close-lipped about her meeting, she was none too pleased to discover that some of the items she'd uncovered had to be left behind.<p>

Veronica barely noticed the unending stream of vitriol that came from that discovery. If Kette could have magically transformed them both into pack mules- as if she hadn't already- she would have done it in a heartbeat.

Upon arriving back at the Lucky 38, the only thing Veronica had bothered to do before going to sleep was give herself a thorough once-over in the mirror. Gingerly lifting her tunic over her head and tossing aside her undershirt once she was sure she had some privacy, she got a chance to see what remained of the damage. Bruises. Scrapes. Nothing major; even the gashes- save those that were still bandaged- were disappearing quickly, largely thanks to the number of stimpaks Cass had used on her. It was almost a shame that she wouldn't have any physical reminders of what happened at the Dam, some battle scars to call her own.

Once she was finished, she went immediately to sleep, unwilling to look over her armor to see what needed fixing. All she wanted was to rest, get the relaxation she so richly deserved, and bide her time until the next crisis popped up.

It wouldn't take long, she would soon discover.

Two days after the Legion had been routed and victory had been declared, the conversation with Todd, the one she'd hoped would be inconsequential, became a Big Deal.

She'd been sitting listlessly at the edge of the guest bed, toying with the sleeve of her damaged robes, the bulk of the garments draped haphazardly over one leg. The evidence of the wounds she'd sustained had dwindled to a patchwork of fading bruises and scratches along her arms and torso, but her tunic bore the marks of the more significant damage. Blood was spattered over ragged tears that expose what's left of the armor plating, deep trenches dug into the abdomen.

"Damn..." It never failed. Every time she saw how close those gouges came to cutting through to her skin, maybe further- "Lucky break..."

_Yeah,_ she thought, frowning. _Lucky._ That was her, alright.

She was brought out of her pondering by a light tap on the shoulder, startled to see Kette standing behind her.

"Woah, sorry," Kette said, her hands raised in feigned surrender, her smile apologetic. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay," Veronica said, returning the smile with a half-hearted one of her own. "What's up?"

"We, ah..." Kette rubbed at the back of her neck, her smile fading. "We've gotta talk."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Earlier that morning, if one turned their eyes to the northern farmlands of the Mojave, they'd see no hint, or remnant of the turmoil that had afflicted the desert's eastern settlements. The only sign that anything had occurred came in the form of stillness, the scavengers and opportunists that normally occupied the abandoned shacks and houses shifting their focus elsewhere. Word of the Fiends' days-long assault on McCarran had attracted their attention, the prospect of capitalizing on the spoils of someone else's battle proving to be a powerful lure, their absence allowing the scant few wastelanders that negotiated the flat terrain to travel in peace.<p>

During a time of such uncertainty, there weren't many that chose to do so, and those that did were paid little mind. So little, in fact, that entering one of the small houses formerly occupied by the broken up packs of Vipers proved to be easier than it would have been otherwise. Greeted to the sight of spent Jet inhalers, a small pile of emptied syringes, and an assortment of capsized liquor bottles on the floors and tables, one such traveler paused at the entrance of one of the more modest homesteads, eyes scanning the interior for signs of activity. Ignoring the scent of burnt hair, dried vomit and spilled beer that had been allowed to congeal into an unappetizing perfume, she did a quick sweep of the premises, attempting to assess how long it had been since the former occupants had been present.

Seeing no items of value, and no immediate sign that the outing was liable to be a short one, she was far from assured of her personal safety, but was confident enough in it- as well as her ability to stave off any potential attacks, should the squatters that had taken up residence come calling- that she finally shed her anonymity. Tugging away the scarf that hid her face, the beige hat that covered her hair set aside once she'd swept the various forms of paraphernalia off of the kitchen table, Cassandra Moore allowed herself a moment to sit and rest, wearied as she was by several long hours of solid walking.

She'd come prepared for a fight, the possibility that the staggered groups of raiders had decided to hold their meager territories instead of abandon them; in some cases, finding that there was little use for both the rifle and the standard sidearm she carried with her might have ranked as something of a disappointment. In this instance, she was glad for the time she had to get her thoughts together.

As absurd as it seemed to have taken so many risks for such a simple meeting- the threat of displaced Legionaries was still a very real one, and her high-profile position in the Mojave had demanded that she receive greater protection- the risks, and the preparations, had been warranted. Guards would have asked what it was she was planning to do, why she'd left the relative safety of the Dam, saying nothing of who it was she planned to meet in such a remote location, and she had no interest in giving them answers.

Tugging a plain folder out of the rucksack she'd strapped her rifle to, Moore laid out the contents on the table to double-check each document she'd brought with her, making sure that all the information was as close to correct as it needed to be. She was far from enthusiastic about the idea of negotiation with a member of the Brotherhood for the sake of saving a truce she didn't particularly care for, but with the possibility of a diplomatic disaster looming on the horizon, she had little choice in the matter.

Still, there was a peculiar feeling that settled over her as she looked over the documentation. If the ideals behind the truce spread, if peace was, in fact, reached between the NCR and the Brotherhood once the talks began, the unsigned pieces of paper at her fingertips would be entered into the annals of history. Both she, and the unremarkable young woman she'd asked for an audience with, would have a definable role in something neither of them had thought possible.

Loathe though she was to admit it, she felt, for a moment- a little overwhelmed, though that hardly seemed like the right word for the sensation. Like the journey out to the small farmhouse, the papers represented a calculated risk, one that was taken in the pursuit of something she'd never dreamed she'd be a part of. And, in seeing that the documents were properly written, properly notarized, all the i's dotted, the t's crossed, she found herself settling into that strange reverie, turning each implication over in the back of her mind, from what was bound to occur in the span of a couple hours, to the surprised looks she'd received from her colleagues and superiors when she'd informed them of the truce in the beginning. Some had even go so far as to state their disbelief.

"You've either completely flipped," Oliver had said, "or you're looking to give Crocker a goddamn heart attack. Which is it?"

"You'll forgive me for saying, sir," she'd replied dryly, mildly irritated by the implication, no matter the slight basis in truth, "but, where, exactly, does 'insane or vindictive' come in to an honest attempt to neutralize a potential threat in a way that plays to our advantage?" When he looked at her blankly, she resisted the urge to sigh wearily, and said, "What?" with a note of impatience.

Oliver had just looked at her, as if his initial assessment was closer to the truth. "It's nothing," he replied with a slight shake of his head, a bemused half-smile on his face. "I'm just glad we can count on having some extra firepower, assuming this checks out. And Kimball, hell... once he sees this, he won't know whether to shit or go blind." Something had shifted in his expression when he'd said that, but little was made of it; as it stood, she didn't blame him for being a little perplexed.

It wasn't as if he was alone in that feeling, though she hadn't wanted to allow him that; she was still smarting from the fact that his tacit inferences had been correct.

Pulled back to the present by the sound of the door unlatching, Moore placed her hand on her holstered sidearm and rose from her chair, mindful of the possibility that the newcomer might very well be a hostile. Instead, she saw Veronica, a startled expression settling in on her features as she realized who it was she'd come to meet with. Suppressing a vague smile as the former scribe backpedaled to hiss rebukes at the courier that had escorted her here, Moore made it a point to assure the young woman of her safety. Her pistol, she said, was only on-hand in the event that the house's former occupants saw it fit to return. That much, Veronica allowed for, and the colonel's insistence that she keep her power fist equipped and ready seemed to put her mind at ease, enough to take up the offer to seat herself at the table.

It here that the strange feeling Moore had been privy to moments before began set in again. Here, in plainclothes, looking at a woman she'd have likely killed no less than a few weeks prior, when it was still admissible to do so, it felt not like a negotiation, but a conclusion. That the former scribe seemed to be feeling it, too, was easing, oddly. Allowed them to proceed in spite of that moment of shared uncertainty.

Eyeing the documents spread out over the table warily, Veronica had reluctantly taken up the offer to sit across from the colonel, "What's this about?" asked tentatively.

"Well," Moore replied, turning some of the documentation around so the former scribe could look it over, "in part, it concerns your personal safety. The rest, I'll go into momentarily."

Veronica looked over the forms and reports, guarded expression turning bemused as she lifted her gaze to look at Moore curiously. "What does this mean by 'sanctuary?'"

"The right to asylum," Moore replied. "In this situation, it's applicable."

"On what basis?" Veronica asked, becoming all the more visibly confused.

"Well-founded fear," was the initially nebulous answer.

The term, Moore explained, had come from a Pre-War refugee policy set by the United Nations before it had been dissolved. She explained that it was applied to individuals who sought asylum due to a significant potential for reprisals from their former allies, threats that hadn't been acted upon but still posed a very real danger. The NCR had adopted the policy after the destruction of the Enclave, believing that the provision could persuade those enemy combatants who were thinking of defecting to do so- but the move was hardly a charitable one. No, they'd modified it, Moore said; altered the language in the original pre-war conventions to state that any incoming refugees would have to provide something- preferably something lucrative- in return for the NCR's protection. Something verifiable. Thankfully, Veronica had done just that, whether or not she was aware of it.

Unsurprisingly, she wasn't.

"It's simple," Moore said. "Based on what your friend told me, you're the one responsible for presenting the idea of a truce to the Brotherhood. Is that correct?"

"I- guess," Veronica said, uncertain. "I'm not really sure how-"

"She said you'd urged her to speak to your Elder about the task I'd given her," Moore interrupted her, unable to hide some of the contempt she still held for the courier's decision. "Said that he was liable to come up with an alternative... but that you were unable to approach him, yourself." Veronica's nod of confirmation was all she needed to continue, and she went on to say, "Furthermore... she stated that you advised her to be careful with how she worded her approach, which- really, is the most important part of all of this." She paused, then, breezing past any explanation as to what that meant to say, "How, exactly, did you tell her to approach the Elder? And can you be certain that she followed your advice?"

"I'm- fairly certain she did," Veronica said. "I mean, it's Kette, so, ah... really, it's anyone's guess on how she _actually_ presented it, but... I told her to say that if she couldn't get him to agree to a truce of some kind, things would get real ugly. That you knew where the bunker was and that it was only a matter of time before they were up to their eyeballs in NCR troopers."

"Why not just warn him, though?" Moore asked, either for curiosity or for clarification's sake. "Tell him what I'd had in mind? You'd think that'd be enough of a 'come to Jesus' moment for him."

"McNamara's pretty level-headed about a lot of things," Veronica replied, "but... I wasn't sure how he'd respond to a direct threat. He'd surprised me a couple times before I left, said things I hadn't-" She paused, waving her hand to dismiss her own attempt to explain. "It doesn't matter," she said, shaking her head. "All I thought was that maybe... I don't know, putting the option for a truce on the table might soften him up a little. That he'd be more likely to bargain if it seemed like an actual possibility."

Silence.

"I'm not sure if that was a wise decision," Moore said, eventually, "or an incredibly bad one. Just by returning to me with their 'counter' offer... you _do_ know that all it did was confirm my suspicions concerning where they'd been hiding out, don't you?"

"I do," Veronica said, nodding slightly. "But at least- they'd have fair warning if it turned out badly. A little time to prepare if it didn't go well."

"Or less time," Moore remarked mildly. "Either way, it turned out to be advantageous." She shook her head, glancing out the loft's open doors as she said, "One of the few things about this situation that can actually be called that," in a muttered aside.

"How so?"

"Well... putting aside the truth of the matter," Moore continued, "we're now in a position where we can alter the chain of events in a way that the Brotherhood corroborates. Say that Ms. Hazhir brought you in to discuss a non-violent solution to the problem, at your urging."

"But..." Veronica hesitated, then, puzzling over the rest of what had been said. "Don't your superiors already know what you had in mind for that? That you had no intention of following through with a peaceful agreement?"

Moore offered her a surprisingly sly, albeit subdued smile. "My only orders were to 'take care' of the Brotherhood, and report back when a solution had been reached. They trusted me to deal with the problem using whatever methods I deemed appropriate, and so far as they're concerned, that's precisely what I did." Beat. "They didn't get what they expected, certainly, but they were pleased with the results."

"So you took credit for the agreement," Veronica clarified.

"In part," the colonel admitted, unflinchingly. "It went over well with my detractors."

It was all very candid, really, enough to keep the former scribe off-balance for the better part of the meeting. Wisely, Veronica had kept quiet about how much faith Moore seemed to be placing in her to follow along with it, seeming to recognize that the plan offered a firm solution for all those involved where, previously, there had been none.

She would sign a report that reflected the proposed alterations in the chain of events, one that was all neatly written out in plain English. It stated that a week prior to the briefing Moore had given Kette in regards to the Brotherhood, Veronica had been brought in to discuss what would be required of her to be granted asylum. After that, the date of the briefing itself, the brief summary portraying Veronica as having played a much greater role in the proceedings. Lastly, there was the date the truce had been presented to Moore, a date that was repeated next to a series of signatures, with a note that stated clearly that asylum had been granted to the former scribe. All of it had been notarized.

"All it needs is your John Hancock," Moore said, "and it's all finalized."

Veronica let out a short chuckle, looking at the older woman uncertainly. "...My what?"

"Your signature."

"Oh..." Veronica paused- then opened her mouth to ask a question that was quickly cut short.

"It'd take too long to explain," Moore said flatly, "and I don't have time to give you a history lesson. Just sign it so we can move on to my actual offer."

Looking down at the report, Veronica mulled over it quietly, checking and double-checking the wording to as if to make sure she wasn't walking into a proverbial bear-trap. "I have to ask," she said, tentative, "what, ah... what do I stand to gain from signing this?"

"I'll get to that," Moore said, "but you need to realize that this isn't about you. It's about the fact that, already, Ambassador Crocker is drafting up a peace agreement with the Brotherhood, one that's lasting." Displeased though she was by the idea, a fact that was reflected in her tone, she nonetheless refrained from comment, preferring to go on to say, "Without this, your presence at the Dam on the days in question will give the top brass cause for concern- and rightly so, considering it _could_ call the basis for the entire truce into question, _and_ incite a conflict that we really don't need right now."

Veronica fought a faint smile, at that, catching the hints of emotional blackmail. Sobering, she asked, "And what about you? What do you get out of this?"

Tempting though it was to state flatly that it was no one's business but her own, Moore nonetheless gave the question some consideration. It wasn't in her best interests to state the whole truth of the matter, but the young woman's decision to stick with the talk for this long had at least earned her some ground, however slight.

"Let's just say that my history with the Brotherhood will give _them_ equal cause for suspicion," she said eventually. Refraining from providing any further explanation, she instead added, "Besides that, failing to run damage control could land me in hot water with my own superiors."

Judging by Veronica's expression, there was recognition of the fact that a great deal was being withheld, but nothing was made of it. Instead, the bulk of the younger woman's attention was centered solely on her misgivings.

"What, uh..." the former scribe said, clearing her throat, seeming to move past whatever it was that was making her hesitate, "what should I put as a signature?"

Moore looked at her curiously. "Excuse me?" She paused, then, and looked at the former scribe with a note of amusement. "Actually, never mind. I think I know what this is about." Leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, she said, "I take it the word 'cursive' doesn't mean anything to you?"

Veronica grinned lopsidedly. "Not unless it has something to do with swearing."

"Does 'writing in a continuous line' ring a bell?" Beat. "And I'm assuming you know how to spell your own name," Moore amended dryly.

Meeting Veronica's wearied look with the ghost of a wry smile, Moore felt her shoulders relax slightly upon seeing the former scribe put pen to paper to sign where she'd been instructed to. At the very least, the young woman had managed to keep the 'V' and 'S' as legible as possible, though she had to be assured that the rest didn't need to look like much more than a scribble, a fact that was exemplified by Moore's own signature.

The process was complete, Veronica asked, "So, where do we go from here?" handing the papers back to the colonel.

Moore placed the documents back into the folder on-hand, and said, "I'm glad you asked," a couple more forms withdrawn from the small pile.

It was based on the idea Kette had proposed; continued sanctuary under provisions that had already been outlined. With the help of the military's legal advisors, using evidence of the attack against the Followers as provided by Kette, an under-the-table deal could be reached that allowed Veronica to remain in NCR territories without fear of persecution. There was no doubt that the Brotherhood had no particular interest in being seen as blatant murderers, and that the whole messy incident at the outpost would be better left forgotten.

Judging by the former scribe's expression, the idea had struck her as far from awful, but she was still, understandably, uncertain.

Thus, it didn't surprised Moore that, even at the risk of sounding irreverent or ungrateful, Veronica had asked: "What's the catch?"

[...]

When Veronica had agreed to go with Kette, it was under the pretense that she was going to be meeting with a 'top ranking official,' and that it was urgent. Then, slowly but surely, as they made their way to one of the many abandoned farmsteads north of the Strip, more details were brought to light, one in particular making the former scribe come to a dead halt. That it wasn't _just_ an official, it was an NCR official. Coaxed into continuing the journey after Kette had sworn up and down that nothing bad would come of it, that it was strictly on a diplomatic basis, she was none too happy about the development, but she was absolutely blindsided by who it was she saw standing in the small farmhouse they'd come to.

Colonel Cassandra Moore. It never failed; every time Veronica had seen the woman in person, the word 'presence' was the first thing that sprang to mind. Even in plainclothes, the woman was instantly recognizable.

She was a known quantity to the Brotherhood, publicly written off as an irritant by many, but privately acknowledged to be a very real threat to their continued survival. Her arrival in the Mojave had not sat well with the Hidden Valley chapter, and with good reason: as Veronica had witnessed first-hand, the Colonel had every intention to finish what had started at HELIOS One, to end the conflict between the two camps once and for all. The woman didn't care if it had to be dishonorably, or by contracting outside help, tapping a tentative ally of the Brotherhood to meet her goals... she just wanted it done.

Speaking with the Colonel, with someone who had become something of a legend in her own time... Veronica had held an audience with her before, but this time, it was different. The blinders were off; Moore knew her for what she was, and sought to know who she intended to become.

There was no love lost between them, but there was an air of... something... to the exchange that Veronica couldn't put her finger on. It wasn't respect... it was a kind of acknowledgement that was strange, almost surreal. She was relieved to see that even the battle-hardened soldier seemed to take note of it, seemed to be feeling it just as poignantly, especially once they got to talking.

That feeling faded upon seeing the documentation that was spread out in front of her, all the implied planning and preparation that went into the official forms, all incredibly meticulous, providing a fair distraction from the anxiousness she felt. All of it exemplified the many reasons why the Colonel had been seen as so formidable; that she'd drafted up such an elaborate ruse in such a short amount of time made it clear that the woman's ability to play a variety of angles was... impressive, to say the least. Especially once Veronica saw that the whole thing had been officially notarized.

Putting down her signature in lieu of that recognition had been the easy part; the hard part was listening to the offer that came afterwards. It was a proposal to work hand in hand with the NCR, under the banner of civilian oversight on all things technical. Part of her recoiled, but she was struck by the realization that... the idea didn't sound half-bad. She would later admit that what had made the Colonel's offer so appealing in the first place was a sense of stability, but she wasn't sure she could bring herself to agree to it, even if failing to do so would be conceding to a situation that, on the surface, seemed a lot more uncomfortable.

But, the fact of the matter was that there would be oversight. There would be regular check-ins to ensure ther was no 'infringement' or unforeseen technological advances that seemed well beyond the scope of the NCR's abilities. There would be constant updates as to whether or not the former scribe had lived up to her end of the bargain, or if her actions had represented a breach of contract- which, of course, would implicate the Republic itself, even if the blame for the over-reach would rest solely on Veronica's shoulders. And considering the Brotherhood's rather broad definition of what might constitute said breach, the entire thing just- seemed far too tenuous to abide by.

Thus, she had to ask: "What happens if I say no?"

"From what Ms. Hazhir tells me?" Moore said, tone mild. "You die in obscurity. Or at the business end of a laser rifle."

_Oh,_ Veronica thought, underwhelmed. _Is that all._

"Personally?" Moore went on, then, "I really don't care what route you take with it, but I'm willing to bet that you'd like to see things pan differently."

That much was true. There weren't as many catches as Veronica would have originally guessed, but there were still problems, ones she made mention of. Even under the protective veil of asylum, the Brotherhood would be keeping a close eye on her... and all those aspects that made the idea seem pleasant were overburdened by that one, simple fact. She might be protected, but the problem remained: her friends might not be. She'd kept that from Moore, convinced the older woman didn't care to hear it, but there were other things worth mentioning.

"Can I be honest with you?" the former scribe had said, tentatively.

"Are you implying that you haven't been?" Colonel Moore replied, unamused.

"No, I mean..." _How to put this..._ "On a personal level."

Though Moore hardly seemed all that interested, she said, "Knock yourself out. Just keep in mind that I haven't got all day."

"I know," Veronica said, nodding faintly. "I do. I just... I wanna say that I appreciate this. I... know what it probably took to make this offer in the first place-"

"You have no idea," Moore said lowly.

"I, ah..." Veronica raised her head to look the Colonel in the eye, steeling herself to say, "Actually, ma'am," affording the older woman at least a little courtesy in the event the words, "I think I do," went over poorly.

It didn't, thankfully. The words were taken in the spirit they were given, the older woman's expression... softening to a more significant degree, strange as that was to see.

"Fair enough," Moore replied, her tone easing. "So you know what it took to make the offer," she repeated then, to prompt the former scribe, "but-?"

"But," Veronica said, picking up where she'd been derailed, "that whole 'check-in' and 'oversight' thing? Feeling like my every move is being examined under a microscope?" She didn't even mention how contradictory it seemed; at one moment, the Brotherhood couldn't have her far enough away, and the next? She felt like maybe she should be checking her shower for hidden cameras. "Doesn't seem like much of a step up from what I'm already dealing with." She paused, then, shaking her head. "That's not even the biggest issue," she admitted, then. "The entire reason-" Another pause; as easy as it would have been to lauch into a diatribe on the how's and why's of her departure from the Brotherhood, now was not the time, and Moore was not the person to say it to. "Starting over," she said. "Putting it simply: I like pushing boundaries. Or, more specifically, I just _do_, whether or not that's the goal I've got in mind. I guess you could call it a recurring theme. Or my one amazing talent."

"Somehow," Moore replied blandly, "this doesn't come as a surprise." Beat. "Your point?"

"My point is that- the tendency doesn't exactly bode well for this arrangement... I mean, I don't want to sound ungrateful? But say I screw up without even planning on it, which... so far, has always been the case. You guys are technically liable for that, right? You'd have to answer for it?"

"To some degree," Moore said, eyebrow raising.

"But it'd be kind of a big deal."

Moore seemed to fight a faint smile, saying, "Is there such a thing as 'kind of a big deal?'"

Veronica held back her own smirk at that, and instead continued with that thought. "Either way, it'd throw a wrench into diplomatic relations," she said, moving on when she got a nod from the Colonel. "I... don't know that I could forgive myself if something I said or did jeopardized whatever agreement you guys come to." She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "That was a smooth move, by the way- making me feel like I might ruin everything if I didn't sign on the dotted line. Either Kette told you I run screaming at the first sign of a guilt trip, or you just have a knack for that sort've thing."

"Kind of you to notice," Moore said, with a note of wry humor Veronica wasn't expecting. "I thought it was a nice touch, myself." Beat. "Though I have to hand it to you- I don't know that I've seen anyone so convinced of their ability to screw up."

Veronica smiled weakly. "Like I said," she replied, shrugging somewhat limply, "it's kind of a recurring theme," her own eyes turning towards the loft's open window. "Doesn't really help that the Brotherhood's definition of 'sedition' doesn't allow for things like 'being reasonable,' so I don't have much hope that those kinds of considerations were a part of my severance package." Beat. "Best I can hope for right now is that maybe- everything goes well with the truce over the next couple years, and they loosen up a little bit. Get a little less anxious... maybe stop giving me the stink-eye."

It didn't need to be said that Veronica wasn't interested in waiting for that time to come, either. With the choices she'd made, acting on them sooner rather than later seemed like the only option she had. Staying in one place, waiting for opportunities rather than seeking them out... had a tendency to breed complacency. It came as a relief that Moore didn't seem irritated or even all that surprised by Veronica's unwillingness to give a snap decision, apparently content to conclude the meeting for the time being. Papers were tucked away in their rightful place, the folder slid back into the rucksack the colonel had initially withdrawn them from.

When she raised from her chair, however, Moore surprised Veronica with an absent question, "I have to ask," stated in a more conversational tone, "for the sake of curiosity... Were you ever directly involved in the war?"

Veronica didn't have to ask what was being referred to. "No," she said. "My parents were, though. Actually, since you brought it up... I was wondering..." She paused, unsure of whether or not she even wanted to know the answer to the question she had in mind. "Did, ah- did the army ever keep Brotherhood holotags?"

"Sometimes," Moore said. "Why?"

"Do you remember any names?"

"Some of them." Moore regarded her calmly. After a moment, she said, "Are you sure this is a road you want to go down?"

"Santangelo," Veronica said, unwilling to bow to better judgment. "Did you ever-"

"I know what your name is. And no." The older woman's shoulders relaxed slightly, her expression softening. "It's funny," she continued, tone easing, "when I heard the name mentioned in the first place, I asked myself the same question. Wondered if I'd ever seen tags with that name on it."

For reasons Veronica assumed were wildly different than her own.

"And...?"

"Maybe I did," Moore said, shrugging, "Maybe I didn't. It's been a long time since I completed those tours, and I was never one for collecting those kinds of souvenirs."

Veronica nodded, considerate.

"It sounds Italian," Moore observed absently. "Your name."

Pausing, not entirely sure what to make of the comment, Veronica said, "I... think it's Roman, actually." Which seemed a little unfortunate, in this day and age.

"From what little I know," Moore replied, "they're somewhat interchangeable."

Veronica nodded, a faint smile on her lips. "Guess I should brush up on my history."

"Apparently you've got the time for it," the Colonel remarked mildly.

"Yeah." _Ouch._ "I suppose I do."

Beat.

"That said," Moore said, breaking the brief silence that fell between them, "if you ever change your mind about the offer... you can have your friend contact me."

"I will," Veronica said, nodding. "I'll think about it."

"Don't take too long," Moore reminded her. "The talks are set to begin next week. After that, it'll be a long time before we can swing a deal like this again."

If it was a deal she even wanted. "I know."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>"Kette," Veronica would at one point explain to some of the people the courier had employed for long-term 'service,' having traveled with the girl for the longest stretch of time, "is Kette, which you eventually learn to forgive her for."<p>

This was something each one of them had eventually come to understand as the only proper explanation, as irritating as it may have been to be presented with something so obtuse. Doubly so when they'd asked why, exactly, they were following along with the plans of a girl whose conduct consistently called her sanity- saying nothing of her morality- into question.

It was hard to know where to begin with that girl. Everything had a tendency to seem like a joke to her. Even her expressions, save ones that communicated patently negative emotions, always managed to come off as sardonic or flirtatious; it was so excessive that, to both herself and Cass, it had become something of a joke. To Cass's observation that Kette was the personification of the 'slutty secretary, without the tits to pull it off,' Veronica could only agree- though she'd be hard-pressed to say the second part out loud.

Thick-rimmed glasses, slanted eyes, arched brows, high cheekbones, dusky olive skin, black hair tied back into a spikey ponytail and a penchant for wearing slinky, far-too-revealing business attire that had no purpose save for aesthetics, she had what she herself termed as Middle Eastern attributes, though the country of origin she'd named was one that neither Veronica or Cass had recognized. But aside from all that, even if her company was at many times highly entertaining, the girl was nothing short of insufferable in many instances, a fact that was exemplified by a nigh-omnipresent smirk on her lips, all-knowing and completely aggravating. That smirk, that overall look of hers, had helped her compel a wide variety of people to do the bulk of her work for her, all while she took a hefty percentage of the caps she raked in from each new endeavor.

And really, had the courier not started paying both women regular retainers at a substantial rate - something she forced them not to mention to the others wandering around the Strip suite she'd allowed them all to stay at - neither Cass nor Veronica would have stuck around her for long enough to realize that the girl could actually be quite pleasant to travel around with. And, in turn, Kette seemed to figure out where to tone herself down a little. She had, for instance, realized that making anyone traveling with her fight at her behest, waiting until things got dire before she stepped in to take a few well-aimed pot shots of her own, was not a proper method of conduct. She'd realized that maybe, selling the personal belongings of her friends and allies was not something to be proud of. And above all, she'd come to recognize that maybe, just maybe, going into dangerous situations with a head full of Jack's super-special 'ride-the-coyote tobacco chew' was not the best idea.

This did not, however, mean that all of those behaviours had been eradicated. They hadn't been. That fact was made abundantly clear to Veronica after she'd left the meeting with Colonel Moore.

"All done?" Kette asked as she turned her attention away from whatever it was she'd occupied her time with.

"Yeah," Veronica said, casting a glance back towards the woman she'd just been talking to; she got a dismissive wave for her trouble. "Yeah, we're done."

"So- you gonna tell me how it went?"

Veronica shrugged her shoulders as she and Kette began to make their way back towards the Strip, visibly unsure of how to feel about what had just occurred. "I told her I'd think about it," the former scribe said, looking back towards Kette reluctantly. "Signed a statement saying I was helping to broker the peace deal, which isn't all that far from the truth."

"So what was the offer?"

"Something about working with the NCR on research and development," Veronica said. "Civilian tech, not weaponry... and it'd just be oversight, I wouldn't actually be a part of the planning stages, so... The hope is that I'd be in the clear on that one. But that's assuming the Brotherhood would agree to it, which..." She rolled her eyes heavenward, letting out a light sigh. "I sincerely doubt they would, so... I declined. For now." Beat. "I don't know." Kette huffed, appearing vaguely put out, her moodiness earning her a curious look. "What?"

"Hmn?"

"What's that look about?"

Kette looked at Veronica side-long. "What look?" she asked tensely.

Veronica stopped mid-stride to eye the Courier wearily. "Kette..."

"It's nothing, alright?"

Squinting at Kette suspiciously, Veronica said, "Did you have some kind of stake in this that I should be aware of?"

"Who said I had a stake in it?" the courier fired back at her, getting increasingly flustered.

Veronica smirked in spite of her irritation, saying, "Your face, for one."

Kette snorted. "My face is a dirty liar," she muttered.

"Same with the rest of you," Veronica observed dryly.

Kette pursed her lips.

"So?" Veronica prompted her. "What were you hoping to get out of this?"

"Alright," the courier said, hands raising in mock surrender. "I may have mentioned that it'd be nice to get a finder's fee- like royalties." She appeared indignant when she saw Veronica looking at her incredulously. "I said may. It's not like anything'd be set in stone until the peace talks."

"Royalties," Veronica said, vaguely disbelieving. "Out of whatever I get for a paycheck, I'm guessing?"

"It's just a small cut," Kette said, in her own defense. "A little 'thank you' for getting you a sweet deal on-" she faltered a little, catching sight of Veronica's increasingly baffled expression. "It was tiny. Ten percent at the most." Beat. "Okay, it was fifteen percent," she muttered, cowed by the withering stare shot in her direction. "But that was it."

Veronica snorted. "I like how you decided to pre-emptively thank yourself for me."

Kette quirked her lip. "So... does this mean you're pissed at me?"

"No." A little irritated, but not 'pissed,' per se. "The entire world would collapse in on itself the day you did something selfless." She smirked, her expression overstating her sarcastic tone. "Honestly, it's reassuring to know that some things never change."

In a way, she wasn't lying; in light of how much had changed, even without counting what had just taken place, stability, the thing that had made the colonel's offer so appealing, even annoying forms of it, yielded some small comforts. As for the meeting itself, well... it served as a symbol for that sense of instability, as jarring as it was novel. It wasn't every day she got to shake hands with the enemy - an actual enemy, one that had, at one time, made slaughtering everyone Veronica had ever known or loved one of her long-term goals in life - and talk frankly about some of the most jarring moments of her history, without rancor or recrimination.

When they'd parted ways on that note, Veronica couldn't help feeling a little... giddy? Light-headed? It hadn't felt good... but it wasn't bad, either. It was like everything else in her life, of late: different.

Alien.


	3. Trouble in Paradise

A few things:

a) I'm pretty sure it's safe to assume that 1st Recon got pulled from McCarran to take potshots at the Legion during the Dam assault. Right? Right.

b) There is more world-building silliness (for the sake of acknowledging some of the random endings).

c) Fair warning that there's a little more 'cute' in this segment than my usual fare. The proverbial '_everyone help Veronica because she sucks at this_' hour.

* * *

><p>[ <strong>3<strong> :: Trouble in Paradise ]

* * *

><p>Though the meeting had been necessary, it was by no means Moore's primary focus that morning.<p>

Around the time she had left for the farmhouse, two full platoons of soldiers had been dispatched to the South Vegas ruins on her orders, with two more on standby. To give the soldiers ease of movement, and less 'friendly' targets to shoot at, locals had been ordered to stay indoors; similarly, both Freeside and the Strip had been quarantined off, with a heavy compliment of MPs to ensure that though people could enter through the gates, no one could leave.

It left the landscape eerily still; entirely too quiet.

The platoons, well on their way to completing their objectives by the time Moore had sat down to speak with Veronica, were given explicit instructions to quietly eliminate any targets they saw when moving into various positions around key locations, using whatever guerilla tactics the individual squad leaders deemed necessary. Once in place, they were told to wait for further orders. If the initial phases had run their course as planned, each squad would be where they needed to be a little less than an hour prior to Moore's arrival at the Embassy, maintaining radio silence and as low a profile as they could manage.

The staggered remnants of Caesar's Legion weren't the target this time; it was the Fiends. Emboldened by the number of troops they'd seen being pulled from Camp McCarran, they had staged an outright attack that had lasted through the NCR's engagement with the Legion and well into the evening. They'd fallen back to regroup, eventually, but on the next day, seeing that none of Colonel Hsu's men were in pursuit, they'd staged another assault. The day after, the process repeated itself, and those watching from the outside had been determined to show the lot of them just how grave a mistake they'd made.

In that, Moore's insistence that there was little time to negotiate hadn't been impatient posturing, at least in part. Prior to departing for the farmhouse, she'd checked in to make sure that operations were under way; past that, there was little need to stay in constant contact. The troops that had gotten into position were on standby to wait for her direct orders, and, if all went according to schedule, they would only be waiting for half an hour before receiving those orders. At that point, all their patience, all the improvised planning the colonel had thrown into the effort, would hopefully culminate into a full-on assault against McCarran once additional troops had moved into the area, intent on chasing the Fiends back the Vault Motor-Runner had claimed as his own.

Plenty of variables allowed for the possibility of a clean sweep, at least by Moore's estimation. Relentless though the attacks on McCarran and other outlying areas had been, the Fiends were uncoordinated, their unwillingness to back down, their outright zeal giving her troops ample opportunities to end the situation once and for all. In presenting her plans to General Oliver and, briefly, in a radio conversation Colonel Hsu, she had made no excuses for what the end-game might entail. Neither of them had disagreed with her assessment of what had to be done, and a consensus had been reached with ease: by the end of the day, the Fiends would be wiped out, or scattered throughout the region seeking refuge.

By the time Moore had been in a place where she could directly communicate with the platoon commander she'd placed in charge, their preliminary plan of attack had been carried through without a hitch; it went without saying that the efficiency of the squads was exemplary. Violet and Cook-Cook's encampments had been laid to waste. For the latter of the two Fiend leaders, the crushing victory had been followed up with a fitting end: it had been reported that a woman from 1st Recon could be seen stringing the fat bastard's guts up like Christmas garlands after being the one to make the kill shot, setting the whole grisly diorama ablaze.

No one bothered to stop her, least of all the members of her unit; besides, Gorobets had joked awkwardly, the whole thing had made for a rather stunning visual.

Driver Nephi and his ilk- already severely kneecapped by a confrontation with the courier and her band of merry men several months before- had fled in an attempt to save their own hides, but he and many of the other scattered survivors of those initial assaults knew it was only a matter of time before the NCR's bloodhounds sniffed them out. That didn't stop them from adding to the ever-growing pile of mistakes the Fiends laid claim to; their attempts to hide out in the fortress of Vault 3 had been as misguided as the attack against McCarran. Within the hour of the survivors' attempts to seek refuge in the heavily armored enclosure, Moore's troops had engaged them, the Fiends' inability to operate the locks on the heavy Vault doors allowing the incoming soldiers easy access.

It would take little more than three piffling hours to once again turn the Vault into a mausoleum, the Fiend leader and his faithful dogs torn to pieces in his rusted, makeshift throne room.

In the end, not a one of the Fiends inhabiting Vault 3 was left alive. It was a massacre, pure and simple.

At McCarran, Colonel Hsu's unyielding defense of the area had been commendable, but the sheer number of assailants had taken a heavy toll. The NCR had been able to repel the Fiends struggling to gain a foothold, but it came at the price of incurring significant casualties on both sides. But he had nonetheless provided an apt distraction for the incoming attackers, forcing them to throw the better part of their most vicious combatants into the onslaught. Those combatants had realized only too late that they were no longer receiving word from Motor Runner, from any of their leaders, and by the time the realization struck, Moore's troops had them flanked, had them dead to rights. There would be no retreat, and surrender was not an option. Those that hadn't scrambled to save their own skins, and even several of those that had tried, were executed.

The morally troubling questions concerning the possible rehabilitation of those among the Fiends was completely, inelegantly sidestepped, and the ethical ramifications were ones that every soldier seemed to accept with little difficulty. Those that didn't, or couldn't, had wisely stayed quiet about it. There would be detractors in the future, of course, but for the moment, soldier and civilian alike cared little to dwell on implication. As it had been at the Dam, the only thing that was important to them was that the fight was over.

For those that participated in the assault, hearing the news that the Big Three on the Strip were already preparing for a celebration may have had a sour taste to it, but the occasional reminders of what the Fiends were capable of, writ into the flesh of those bodies found within the walls of Vault 3, erased that uneasiness. After all the problems the Fiends had caused in the region, for all the seemingly pointless atrocities the band of marauders had committed, even the humanitarians among the NCR's ranks who pondered the moral dilemma found it difficult to feel all that guilty about their fate.

"That's the way it should be," Major Dhatri would be heard saying at a later date, without even a hint of remorse. "And if it comes back to bite you in the ass, you've got every right in the goddamn world to bite it right back."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>When Kette and Veronica returned to the Strip, signs of the struggle between the NCR and the Fiends had already been apparent. There were more soldiers stationed at certain waypoints than ever before, and the entrance into Freeside had several armed guards standing alongside it. They'd informed the two confused travelers of the situation- to a point- and told them that the moment they stepped through the gates, they wouldn't be allowed back out until the fighting was over.<p>

Apparently, people on the Strip and people in Freeside both had been 'quarantined,' save for official personnel. All that meant to Kette was that she had not one, but _several_ people knocking around the Lucky 38 that were undoubtedly going more than a little stir crazy; she cared little about helping the NCR with their latest 'problem.' Veronica felt the vague need to make comment on it, if only out of spite, but even she had to admit that she had no particular drive to aid in the offensive, even if she'd been allowed to. After the talk with Colonel Moore, she knew better than to think it would have been anything other than a patently bad idea. Thus, there had been no objections to following the NCR's directives to wait inside the Strip, Kette's concerns about the 'schwag' she'd hauled back from the Dam getting ruined by some of her 'roommates'- specifically a certain irate sniper, and a whiskey-fueled caraveneer- proving to be in no way surprising.

What _had_ been surprising, if not outright jarring, was the look and feel of the Strip once the two women had arrived. Granted, they'd both conceded- inwardly- that they really _shouldn't_ have been all that shocked by the fact that already, the Big Three were working diligently on the upcoming celebration, well before an official victory had even been announced. To Veronica, less so to Kette, it was such a sharp contrast from what was going on outside that it seemed... on many levels, outright absurd.

Lavish decorations had sprung up around the streets, and rows of tables- some for food, some for drink, and many others for all the games typically offered inside the Casinos- were being prepped. The Tops, never one to be outdone, had even gone so far as to start setting up an outdoor stage for some of its more prominent acts. Even the Ultra Luxe had gotten in on the action, but only to a point; they had promised to provide 'the leftovers' from some of their more decadent banquets, but had otherwise closed their doors, as they often did, to the riff-raff that was sure to come in.

All in all, it seemed like a drastic change from how they'd left it, but the reason had been explained rather quickly: in spite of what the soldiers outside had said, the assault the Fiends had launched against McCarran was coming to an end. To the Families, the news meant that the time was right to begin preparations for what promised to be one hell of a weekend-long block party.

The efforts hadn't seemed ill-advised so much as potentially tacky, but it was a bit foolish to expect anything less from the Strip's frontrunners.

[...]

For Cass and the others milling about the Lucky 38, the decorations being set up out front were the only thing- save drinking and potentially blowing a ton of money on gambling- that helped break up the monotony of the two days following the victory at the Dam. Irritated by the quarantine that had been placed on the surrounding area, she had gone so far as to wander through Freeside in the hopes of picking a fight, only to find that a good number of the junkies that were prone to start them had taken the appearance of more soldiers as a sign to lay as low as possible.

She'd considered picking a fight with one of the _soldiers_, then, but decided that maybe, that wasn't the brightest idea.

Lacking a decent method of alleviating the generalized sense of extreme boredom, she and Boone had opted to listen in for updates on the radio to get a handle on how things were going with the Fiends. They'd been relieved to hear that the Vault the marauders occupied had been reclaimed, neither one disturbed by the prospect of a full-on massacre. So far as they were concerned, it was deserved.

"So, Vault 3," she said to him as they shared a shot in honor of Motor-Runner's passing. "What do you think they should turn it into? Museum? Playground? Dog park?"

"Think they should fill it with concrete," Boone replied flatly.

"Not very imaginative," she said chidingly, throwing back the shot in-hand.

He shrugged, washing down a few apple chips with whiskey and, apparently, found the combination to be less than satisfying, if the quirk of his lip was any indication. "Doesn't have to be," he said. "Wasted enough energy on them already."

"I suppose," she said, pouring herself another shot. "Still seems like it'd be a nice slap in the face to have-"

"Quiet."

Cass arched an eyebrow. "Excuse you?"

He pointed to the radio, in time for her to hear Mr. New Vegas make mention of McCarran. Switching the tuner over to the frequency specific to the military, same one Kette had given them for the fight at the Dam, they leaned in, attentive, both intent on knowing what would come of the assault's final phase. Arcade, a constant passer-by throughout the day, had lingered briefly to listen as well, had compared them to starved vultures waiting for morbid entertainment to whet their palates, and wandered off to nap; neither of them paid him much mind, allowing him to toddle off without offering a single word in their own defense.

Kette and Veronica arrived around the time they heard word of the flanking attack Moore's troops had unleashed on the Fiends, and both women were visibly surprised to hear, of all things, _cheering_ coming from the dining room- at least, if their incredulous expressions were any indication.

"My dad used to do this all the time," Kette said to Veronica in an aside. "Had a bunch of Pre-War baseball games on holotapes that he'd get all psyched about."

Veronica had favored the courier with a mildly amused look but hadn't responded, preferring instead to depart once Boone and Cass had raised their attention to the decidedly put off courier.

"Trouble in paradise?" Cass remarked wryly.

"Shut up," was Kette's one and only response.

"She's starting to sound like you," Cass said in an aside to Boone as the courier departed; the man merely grunted by way of response, his non-answer earning him a broad grin from the gunslinger. "I stand corrected," she conceded facetiously.

Maybe it was word of an imminent victory that had lifted the sniper's spirits, but either way, the impossible happened: Boone returned Cass's smile with a forcibly subdued one of his own.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>The day after McCarran had been secured and clean-up had begun, all those quarantined to the Strip were allowed to wander freely, the big celebration planned by the Strip Families had officially been announced. Kette, unsurprisingly, had taken the time to high-tail it over to the besieged base in an attempt to see if there was anything worth taking off of the bodies that littered the grounds. She'd had very little luck, something that hardly helped her dampened mood. The others, meanwhile, saw it fit to either wander around while they had the chance or simply lounge around the '38's Presidential Suite until the party started, assuming they were going to attend in the first place.<p>

It should have been more fun to see the preparations for such a grandiose event underway, but for Cass, it only served as a reminder that soon, very soon, she would be forced to salvage what was left of her so-called career. Kette and Veronica's return from their brief 'outing' to... wherever it was Kette had insisted they go in the first place had provided a brief distraction from it on its own terms, as neither women looking all that pleased, and the gunslinger seized on it immediately. The former scribe, normally incredibly chatty, had been reduced to silence, and Kette- unapologetic, unashamed Kette- looked oddly sheepish.

Even if Cass hadn't been bored out of her mind, she had to know what was going on, but she gave it day's time to simmer before she asked any questions. Letting Veronica alone for the time being, the gunslinger's attention rested solely on the pouty courier that had seated herself in the middle of the foyer- as she often did- to start sorting out the remainder of the items she'd picked up from the Dam, many of which had been strewn across the floor for the past couple days. Armor and weaponry; you name it, it was there, each item arranged according to prospective price.

Cass knew she wasn't liable to get much of a coherent response from the courier about the drama that had arisen, but she had little issue with at least giving conversation a try, breaking the ice with, "That set-up they've got out front is something else, isn't it?" as she leaned against the door frame of the elevators.

Kette glanced upwards as if surprised to hear someone talking to her, more distracted than she would have been normally; a sure sign she was preoccupied with more than just her recurring role as Little Miss Swindles.

"I gotta admit," the courier said offhandedly, if not a little blandly, "it's really something."

"I'll say," Cass replied, fighting the urge to grin at the girl's halted response. "I didn't think the big players'd spring for this kinda shindig. They're not exactly chummy with the NCR."

Kette chuckled. "They're gonna have to be," she pointed out, sounding a little less stunted. "With House out've the picture, they've gotta start sucking up to their new overlords."

"More like sucking off," Cass said, a half-grin on her face. "They'll be doling out so many kick-backs they won't know what hit 'em. Probably end up wishing they'd gone with all those new taxes instead."

"Remember who you're talking about," Kette said, returning the gunslinger's half-smile with one of her own. "The Big Three can afford a few measely kick-backs if it means untaxed profits." She shook her head. "Seems like a shame, honestly."

"A shame?" Cass pushed herself off of the doorframe, approaching the courier but, wisely, staying out of the 'inventory radius,' lest she get counted as a purchasable item. "I'm intrigued. I didn't think 'shame' was a word you knew."

Kette paused for long enough to shoot the older woman a weary look. "I'm just saying," the courier said, tone vaguely impatient, "a lot of those taxes are gonna come out of the hides of the towns that can't afford it."

"I didn't know you cared about that kind of thing," Cass said, undeterred by Kette's show of indignity. "Last I checked you weren't so discriminating. Rich or poor-"

"-Cass," Kette warned, ineffectually-

"-you fleeced 'em all."

"Yes," Kette growled. "_Yes_," she repeated, gesturing emphatically with a Centurion's 'human feather-duster' helmet, "I get it. So far as any of _you_ are concerned," she jabbed the helmet in Cass's direction accusingly, "I'd put an orphan on ice and steal their freaking kidneys if it meant I'd turn a profit. Is that it?" She scoffed, tossing the helmet down on the ground near some of the others. "Chrissake, you'd _think_ after all the help I've given you ungrateful-"

Cass raised a hand to cut the girl off, saying, "Might wanna stop there before you say something you regret," as a light-hearted word of warning, eyebrows arched. "I haven't seen you this wound up since-" She paused. "Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you this wound up before. Must've been a hell of a lover's quarrel you two had..."

"It's none of your business," Kette grumbled. "And _goddamn_, woman, how many times do I need to tell you-"

"I know," Cass interrupted her, hands raised, "I know. Doesn't make me any less interested in knowing what the hell happened between you two."

Kette frowned, roughly picking up a piece of Centurion armor and barely even looking at it for imperfections, though she made a good show of it. Another sure sign something was Wrong.

"Come on," Cass crooned at her, adopting the most saccharine voice she could manage, "cough it up. Tell Auntie Cass what you went and did."

"I didn't _do_ anything!" Kette insisted, dropping the armor onto the floor with a loud, metallic _clang_. "And neither did she! I took her to see Colonel Moore and-"

"Woah?" Cass chanced another step forward, looking at the courier incredulously. "Hold the phone, honey. You took her to see _Moore? _'Blood and Guts' Moore, the one who just turned Vault 3 into a goddamn slaughterhouse? The one who-"

"-could write an instructional guide on how to disassemble power armor with the Paladin still in it?" Kette deadpanned. "Yeah, that rings a few bells." Beat. "Look, you should just ask her about it. It was a friendly meeting. I knew that going into it. Just... I might've..." she waved her hand, as if the gesture could somehow elucidate for her. "She'll explain," she muttered, then, giving up on putting words to it.

After a moment's silence, Cass let out a short bark of laughter. "Oh, boy. You fucked up _bad_, didn't you?"

Kette frowned, indignant, the gunslinger's question left unanswered.

"Man, this oughta be good," Cass said, chuckling. "I'm gonna go check up on her," she said, turning towards the guest bedroom, "see if she's looking to join the party out front." Beat. "You're going, right?"

"Not 'til the big one," Kette replied, absently.

Cass paused, turning to face the courier again. "You _do_ know that's tonight, right?" she said, canting her head to the side.

Kette straightened, eyebrows raised. "That's _tonight?_" She looked at the spread in front of her with a look that could almost be called forlorn. Then, returning her eyes to Cass, she asked, "Are you positive?"

"Really, now. Would I lie to you about a thing like that?"

The courier just looked at her blankly.

Once again, Cass raised her hands, a wry grin on her face. "Silly question," she conceded. "Yes, I'm positive. That guy from the Tops, Benny's number two- Stank? Swing?"

"Swank."

"Whatever. He was talking about how they wanted things set up by the time the monorail from McCarran was back up and running. The way I hear it, they're looking to make the celebration last through the whole damn weekend."

"Damn," Kette muttered under her breath, pushing the heavier pieces of armor up against the far wall, "those guys work _fast_."

How she managed to shove things around and keep them perfectly arranged according to price, Cass would never know. It was a skill the gunslinger almost envied. Almost.

"Think I could get Veronica to show up?" Cass asked after a moment's silence. "Or, well... more importantly, would you even _want_ me to?"

"What kind of a question is that?" Kette retorted, eyebrow raised. "Just 'cause she's mad at me, it doesn't mean I'm gonna tell her to stay cooped up inside all night. Christ, the way you guys talk about me-"

"Ease up, there, killer, I'm just checking," Cass said flatly, incredulous. "Damn..." Beat. "Are you _sure_ this is just about the little meeting you guys had today? Or is there something else going on here?"

Kette was prone to snarkier moments, yes- they all were, truth be told, especially after such trying times. But this? Defensiveness was not the younger woman's usual mode of behaviour, and that alone made Cass incredibly curious. It meant that whatever it was that transpired, it had more emotional connotations than either of the two women were letting on.

That certainty was only amplified by the lengthy amount of time it took for Kette to say, "Like I said," as she dusted bits of the red carpet she'd been kneeling on away from her ripped stockings, "it's not really my place to say anything."

"But it does involve more than just-"

"Yes," Kette said tersely, cutting the gunslinger off at the pass. "But I'm still not gonna explain it to you."

"That's fine," Cass said, shrugging. "Just trying to figure out how much elbow grease I'm gonna have to put into getting her off her mopey ass. That girl looks like she could use a little cheering up."

"You'll need more than effort," Kette said, chuckling. "If you have a couple spare miracles, those'd probably help." She paused, then, leveling a more serious look in Cass's direction. "Just, you know," she continued, her voice mirroring her expression, "_try_ to keep all your flirting to a minimum this time, alright?"

Cass snorted, making her way to the guest room. "Like you're one to talk," she said over her shoulder. "And I swear," she added teasingly, "you two really should just get a room and get it over with. You're not fooling anyone."

"I'm serious, Cass," Kette warned her, bypassing the gunslinger's attempt to bait her. "I know you think it's a big joke between you two, but I'm telling you, she's not in _that_ kind of a joking mood."

Cass merely waved at the courier dismissively, disappearing into the guest room to see what the missing scribe was up to. Given the former scribe's recent disposition, the caravaneer couldn't shake the image of her sitting at the edge of the bed and looking for all the world like she was holding the most epic one-woman pity party the Earth had ever known.

All told, the truth of the matter was anything but.

So, true, Cass had seen Veronica in clothing besides the gaudy robes she wore, had seen her in more flattering attire that was actually form-fitting... but she would never have imagined the former scribe trying on dresses. She'd heard tale of this strange phenomena, but did she believe it? No sir. That kind of thing just didn't happen.

Except for now.

She'd remembered, once upon a time, hearing Kette say something that caught her attention. That while Veronica was undeniably female, "it's always really strange, seeing her be a woman," amending in an almost whimsical tone that she wished the former scribe decided to 'be one' more often, but that the irregularity of it made it novel; interesting. Cass had ribbed the courier about it, of course, but the sentiment had stuck with her, apparently... because now, she could see exactly what Kette had been talking about.

Maybe it was the fact that she'd never seen the girl bare much more than her arms- maybe it was the nervous attempt at femininity, but whatever it was that got her attention, Cass didn't mind taking the time to appreciate it. The younger woman's hair was combed back, a couple strands allowed to fall in her face, the sleek choice in style lending to the simple, but incredibly eye-catching black gown. It was strapless, with an elegant cut, similar to what Cass saw in old, still-surviving photographs of starlets from the 1930's, with little to no bustle to lend the skirts unnecessary volume. No, this gown was allowed to hug in all the right places. Letting her eyes continue to trail downwards, Cass dimly realized she was following the opened zipper of the dress, her eyes taking in the teasing hints of the former scribe's bare lower back at the edge of a shaping bodice that had seen better days.

Or, was presently _seeing_ better days, considering what it was clinging to.

It was rare that Cass took the time to appreciate another woman. There'd been times she'd gotten the inclination, of course, usually after a few stiff drinks and a round of flirting. Had, as Kette had pointed out, flirted rather mercilessly with the former scribe on several occasions, but it wasn't supposed to lead anywhere. The assumption that the behaviour had continued had been wrong, though; much as she'd brushed off the courier's entreaty to keep the flirtation to a minimum, Cass had, in recent times, started to notice the slight winces Veronica kept quietly to herself after a lascivious back-and-forth had come to a conclusion, though she'd been a good sport about it; had lead Cass to decide that maybe it wasn't such a wise idea to lay it on so thick. They both knew what Cass's primary interests were focused on, though it hadn't been said out loud.

Didn't really need to be.

Regardless of that certainty, though... seeing the younger woman as she did presently- quiet, feminine, vulnerable- the caravaneer found herself wondering, if only briefly, if she'd stopped her teasing a little too soon. What she saw, she liked, in ways she wouldn't commonly attribute to someone of the feminine persuasion.

Rather than dwell on it, she cleared her throat to get Veronica's attention, and, crossing the distance between them, offered the startled scribe an easy smile, pointedly ignoring the rather flustered attempt to pull the back of the dress together in an effort to retain some modesty.

Another girlish moment that was oddly disarming, in its way. Contrary.

"And here I thought I'd have trouble convincing you to get all dolled up for the big party," Cass said, approaching slowly, smile appreciative. "Take it this means you're going?"

"I'm thinking about it," Veronica said, smiling lopsidedly. "Figured it couldn't really hurt to try on a few things, see if I couldn't find something that looked, you know... passable."

Cass chuckled, coming alongside the former scribe. "Passable's an undersatement," she observed. "But it'd help if you bothered to zip this thing up." Nudging the younger woman's shoulder, she said, "And speaking of, you might wanna turn around so I can give you some help with that."

Turning slightly to give Cass the ability to make good of the offer, Veronica didn't try to subdue the sheepish smile she gave in response. "Thanks," she said, letting out a light sigh. "I've been messing with that thing so much I'm starting to think I'll break it."

"It's things like this," Cass said, pinching the silky material together at the small of the scribe's back, "that made me swear off formal wear altogether. If I'm looking for easy-access, I'll just wear a skirt."

Veronica let out a soft chuckle, an incredulous look shot over her shoulder as Cass drew the zipper upwards. "Easy access, huh?" she said, smoothing the slightly rumpled material out along her midsection. "Guess we've all gotta have our priorities..."

"You're the one wearing all the trimmings of a 'come hither and fuck thither' motif," Cass reminded her, amused. "You telling me that's _not_ a priority?"

"Not... really," Veronica replied, somewhat abashed at the contact, eyes turned down towards the ground. "Just felt like doing something a little different."

"Well... if you wanna do something _real_ different, you'll do more than just throw on a dress and call it done. Those pretty lips deserve a little something extra-" she paused, adopting a lascivious tone to add, "-other than another set've lips on 'em."

That, apparently, had been Quite Enough, as evidence by the sighed, "Cass," Veronica gave her as she turned to face the gunslinger with a weary look, breaking the contact between them. "I'm sorry... I know you're just having a little fun... but I'm _really_ not in the mood."

Just like Kette said, almost word for word. Thankfully, Cass had no intention of going down that particular path, however tempted.

"Not in the mood for what?" Cass prompted her, grinning wryly. "All I was gonna suggest was a little make-up to tie the whole look together. But if you'd rather not-"

"No! I-" Veronica paused- and in spite of herself, offered the older woman a rather self-effacing smile. Clearing her throat, she said, "That, ah... alright, _that_, I'm in the mood for." Beat. "Sorry, I just thought- uh..." she paused again, shaking her head. "Nevermind what I thought," she sighed. "Make-up is good," she concluded, smile broadening. "Make-up should happen."

"Good girl," Cass said, amusement becoming all the more apparent. "Now you just wait here, and I'll go get my things. By the time you hit the streets you'll have everyone and their mom clamoring for a chance to get all cozy."

And if she wasn't careful with her alcohol intake, Cass admitted to herself- though 'careful' and 'alcohol' often came with the addendum of 'as if'- she might find herself added to that list.

[...]

Cass was hardly someone Veronica would've considered to be 'ladylike,' but she certainly gave the former scribe all the instructions she needed on how to dress the part. After being kind enough to zip up her dress- did those hands linger, somewhere against the curve of her lower back?- the gunslinger did a bang-up job assisting with the makeup. Veronica hadn't noticed until it had been pointed out to her, the fact that Cass had worn much of anything at all, but there it was in plain sight. Eyeliner, a hint of a red pigment on her lips- little hints and touches here and there that accented her features in ways that seemed completely natural. It gave Veronica a renewed appreciation for the woman's off-beat sense of aesthetic.

And her ingenuity. She'd occasionally gotten her hands on Pre-War tubes of lipstick in the past, but almost all of them had dried or were in some way ruined. Cass, for her part, hadn't waited for some Big Find to supplement her cosmetic needs; no, she had a concoction all her on that, while it was difficult to apply, did the trick nicely. When Veronica had asked where it came from, the gunslinger just got a sly smile on her face.

"Old tribal recipe," she'd said, dabbing a stiff brush into a small tin, the tip coming back bright red. "Ma taught me how to make it."

"Your mother was a tribal?" Realizing that her surprise could be read poorly, Veronica reiterated, "I mean- that's not a _bad_ thing, I just- I, ah..." She paused, trying to think of some way to extract her foot from her mouth.

Cass just laughed at her, far from offended by the question. "Different sort of 'tribal' than the ones _you're_ used to trucking with," she retorted with a wry grin. "Open," she said, then, opening her own mouth to form an 'O' with her lips and pointing at it with the brush. Once Veronica took the instruction and mimicked the expression, Cass started to dab the makeshift lipstick onto her, saying, "But yeah. Ma was a tribal. Dad wasn't, so she ditched a lot of her 'old ways' by the time I was born."

Unable to respond with anything more than an "Ah," Veronica took pains to find some place in the room to look at while Cass did her work.

"Doesn't mean she dropped _all_ of it, though," Cass went on to say, drawing the brush over the former scribe's lower lip. "She still taught me a thing or two... you know, the usual stuff. How to live off the land and all the primitive, tree-hugging crap you usually hear about." Beat. "Close," she said, pointing to her lips and tightening them into a thin line, "and rub your lips together. Smear the color around a little."

Veronica did as instructed, making a sour face upon feeling the oily texture of the dye Cass had applied. "Should I ask-"

"No," Cass said, grinning, apparently well aware of what the next question was liable to be. "Trust me, you'll be glad you didn't. 'Least for now."

"Later, then," Veronica said, a wry half-smile on her face as she looked into the small mirror Kette had placed in the guest room.

The effect was noticeable- and highly flattering. And while Veronica was hardly incompetent or even all that bad at applying accents to her features, but she clearly didn't have Cass's flair for it. As hesitant as she'd been about the dress in the first place- it wasn't that she didn't like it, but something about the style had hardly seemed to suit her- Veronica found herself far more inclined to go through with wearing it upon seeing herself. It was remarkable, really, how different she looked- even to herself.

"Now," Cass said, "if we could just get that woe-is-me look off your face, we'd be set."

Veronica cast a glance towards the sharpshooter, a faint smile on her face; all the things she wanted to say to that, all the comebacks she had, would've only encouraged the older woman to start down the same, flirtatious path she'd tread before, and that... as fun as that was, at times, wasn't something she needed, at the moment.

Raising an eyebrow at the former scribe's prolonged silence, Cass returned the look incredulously. "What?"

"Nothing," Veronica said. "Just wondering what you're planning on wearing tonight."

By the look on her face, Cass didn't believe a word of it. "I'm sure," she said, dryly. "Seriously, what's that look ab-"

"Oh!" Lily interrupted from the threshold. "My goodness! Don't you look _lovely!_"

Apparently, neither of them had heard the incoming _tromp tromp tromp_ of her heavy footfalls, though, Veronica had to admit, the old Nightkin was surprising nimble. And incredibly kind, besides. It was statements like that that had made the former scribe less apt to avoid the elderly Nightkin at every turn; Lily's kindly demeanor so blatantly contrasted by that gravelly, snarling voice of hers, so much so that some of the in-built recoil her former 'tribesmen' had hammered into her head in regards to supermutants failed to take.

"Your hair, though," Lily observed as she lumbered over to the two women, "You look too severe like that." Picking up a brush from one of the end tables, she said, "Move aside, dear," to Cass, the gunslinger obeying the request incredulously. "Let me show you a trick I used to use on my daughter."

With all these offers to 'help,' Veronica was starting to get the impression that, to everyone around her, she was the kid riding the short bus when it came to things like _formal wear _and _acting like a lady_. Not that she blamed them, but still, there was something to be said for the automatic assumption that she was incompetent when it came to these things. Unless that was solely her assumption, and they were just trying to help. For the sake of her indignity, she concluded that it was a little of column a, and a little of column b.

If Kette jumped in to lend a hand as well, however, that would swing things back in the direction of her being everyone's favorite Short Bus Scribe.

That aside, much as she didn't want to be rude, Veronica couldn't help but ask the question, "Um... are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Of course it's a good idea," Lily assured her. "Why, I've done this so often, it's like second nature to me. And my daughter, I tell you... if she didn't have her dear old mom to help her out, she'd have never bagged that husband of hers. Not to say I approved of him." She sniffed, gently drawing the brush through Veronica's hair to comb it out of the style it had been put in. "I didn't."

"Kind of a jerk?" Veronica asked, vaguely amused.

"The man had no ambition," Lily remarked. "No prospects. Ever the deadbeat, really. But," she sighed, "he's the father of my grandchildren, so I suppose he can't be _all_ bad." Before Cass could get a word in edgewise, the mutant paused to address her specifically, saying, "Why don't you run along and start getting ready? I hear your friend Miss Kitty has a few new dresses to try on! Wouldn't want to miss out on those, now, would we?"

"Miss Kitty," Cass repeated, grinning ear to ear, refraining from making comment on the fact that she wouldn't be caught dead in an actual dress. "She'll never forgive you for that one, by the way," she added to Veronica.

"Makes us even," Veronica said ruefully.

"I have no earthly idea _why_ she doesn't like it," Lily chimed in. "It's such an adorable nickname."

"I'm pretty sure that's the reason," Veronica said, grinning lopsidedly, to which Lily gave a vague snort.

After a moment's silence, Cass said, "So you gonna be okay if I leave you in here by yourself?" to Veronica.

"She's not by herself!" Lily retorted as she continued to work on the scribe's hair. "She has grandma around to make sure she's just as pretty as a speckled pup," she reassured the both of them, regardless of the blank stares the phrase got her. "Isn't that right, dear?"

"What she said," Veronica said facetiously, gesturing towards the mutant behind her.

"Never knew a speckled pup to be the benchmark for 'dead sexy,'" Cass remarked, grinning broadly, "but so long as you don't end up looking like you stepped out of an old-world convent..."

Lily snorted. "I wasn't born yesterday, pumpkin'," she said to Cass chidingly. "I know a thing or two about these things."

"Just making sure," Cass replied, her smile vaguely apologetic.

"I'll be fine," Veronica assured the gunslinger with a dismissive wave. "Go get yourself ready. Or go on downstairs. I hear the Tops is doling out their whiskey like it's going out of style."

Cass sighed wistfully. "Just as God intended," she said in a dreamy tone. Then, sobering, she turned to leave, "I'll see you down there for sure, though, right?" asked over her shoulder.

"Definitely," Veronica replied, resisting the urge to nod her head in affirmation.

"And what about you, Lily?" Cass said. "You coming?"

"Oh, goodness, no," Lily said, shaking her head.

Veronica turned her head, then, forcing Lily to stop what she was doing. "Why not?"

"You already know the answer to that, sweetheart," Lily said, placing a hand on the scribe's head to turn her back around. "Now keep your head still unless I tell you otherwise. We've got a lot of work to do."


	4. A Small Gesture

Here comes the f/f parade. This'll be referenced later in non-adult-oriented format, though, so if you feel the need to skip this part, you won't be missing a whole lot. I think. I could be wrong. Anyway, there's vulgar language and ~_saucy descriptions_~, so really, the M rating should be heeded.

* * *

><p>[ <strong>4<strong> :: A Small Gesture ]

* * *

><p>The party was, as expected, nothing short of fantastic. The Strip never failed to put out when it came to the biggest displays of decadence any of the attendees had ever seen in their lives.<p>

As impartial as some of them were towards the general milieu, none of them could deny just how jaw-dropping it could be when it was all condensed into what amounted to an amazing block-party. The Securitrons did a good job of keeping the peace, the rowdy drunkards that got overzealous dealt with in accordance to their programming, algorithms that had been left running indefinitely since House's departure. And then there were the none-too-friendly bouncers hired by the Casinos that, if they got their hands on someone who was 'misbehaving,' had a much more amusing take on problem solving. For some, watching the attendees who acted up getting chucked into a makeshift drunk tank, was one of the highlights of the evening. Those men and women- who hadn't had the good luck to get booted out into Freeside by the Securitrons- ended up on display in a patchwork cage, the lot of them performing all manner of crude behaviour; everything from retching helplessly to beating the living crap out of each other, with a few here and there that did little other than sob inconsolably.

Among other things. But there was only so long tawdry behaviour could last amidst a chorus of puking and weeping.

The only absentee among those attending from the Lucky 38 had been Lily, the elderly Nightkin's reasoning already rather apparent, though she did explain, quite pleasantly, that her presence may have disrupted more than enriched the experience. Veronica had tried to get her to chance an appearance, as did some of the others, but Lily was having none of it, far more intent on- with surprisingly nimble fingers- doubling her efforts to give the former scribe a fetching hairstyle, adding a flirtatious wave to those short locks to give the look some much-needed flair. Old-world charm, she called it.

It had taken a while for Veronica to get used to it once the elderly Nightkin was through, but after some time spent staring into the mirror, she found that she didn't so much mind it. It wasn't entirely out of place, didn't look like she was trying too hard, and even better, it wasn't about to make her stand out in the Vegas crowd. She told herself that it was just to blend in, to have fun without having to worry about her former ties, or what had happened out at the Dam, forcibly sidestepping the implication of that desire: that instead of feeling so damn isolated, she wanted to feel like she was a part of something, however vapid, or frivolous.

In the spirit of that, and the internalized declaration that she _was_ going to have fun tonight, she went immediately to one of the several minibars dotting the roadside before locating the people she shared the Presidential Suite with, her appearance earning her immediate compliments, and, warmed by the alcohol, she was only too happy to accept them.

"I can't say it's _you_, necessarily," Arcade observed, playfully twirling her coiffed locks between his fingers, the move proving him to be just as soused as many of the others, "but I'm not an incredibly good judge of what counts as 'you,' leaving aside your inhuman ability to turn a man's head into a fine red mist with your bare hands. Very charming, though."

Veronica smirked. "Is that meant to imply that turning a man's head into a fine red mist isn't charming?"

"I imagine it is to some people, yes," Arcade replied, glancing over towards Boone indicatively, only to find him affording the former scribe's cleavage a fair amount of attention. "Among other things."

The sniper raised his head at the sound of Arcade clearing his throat, expression as bland as ever, "What?" said with little recognition of why both of his companions were smirking at him.

"In his defense," Arcade said dryly, leaving Boone to his bout of confusion upon turning his attention back to Veronica, "keeping in mind that I can't verify this personally... but, from what I hear, a healthy amount of anecdotal evidence, surrounding the 'compliments left unspoken' habits of the common male of the species, seems to suggest that this whole area," he gestured loosely towards her dipped hemline, "can be a rather fetching focal point. Supposedly, anyway."

Boone, thusly given clarity, turned his head to look elsewhere, lips thinned.

"For what it's worth," Veronica said to the perturbed sniper, "I'm flattered," his grunted response and sudden desire to pay more attention to the beer in-hand earning him a light chuckle.

"You should be," Kette said, moving up alongside the scribe. "I wear that kind've neckline all the time and he's never started at _me_ like that."

Arcade paused in his attempt to take a sip from his drink, and cleared his throat gently. "It's not exactly a novelty in your case," he remarked, matter-of-fact.

The chatter continued for a time, but the group eventually dispersed to go do their own thing. Raul, who she hadn't spoken to since she stepped onto the Strip, had engaged himself in some less-than-casual banter with a ghoul dressed in a classy number that clashed oddly with her otherwise desiccated appearance; Kette, for her part, was busy making contacts amongst the political elite, as was expected; Boone seemed comfortable with either standing on the sidelines, or talking with a couple young men who wore the same beret he did; and Arcade was only too happy to tag along with any number of them, save Raul, content to add witty commentary where applicable. As for Rex, the dog had gravitated immediately towards his former owner, the King's presence on the Strip something of a novelty all its own.

"He was invited," Kette had told her earlier. "The NCR's been keeping an eye on him and his boys since a truce got talked out... seem to think he'd be of some use in picking up Freeside."

"Kinda weird thinking of him being in negotiations with NCR brass," Veronica replied.

"About as weird as you talking shop with Moore, you mean?" Kette said, smirking.

"Something like that."

The courier hadn't intended on it souring her mood. In truth, Kette had been nothing but kind for the better part of the night, seeming to realize she'd done wrong. And while the 'wrong' in question was still a bit riling, Veronica had allowed it to slide. What she couldn't let slide was the feeling she was left with as Kette moved on to speak to other people; that, on its own, had driven her back to the roadside minibars more than once, on the off-chance the alcohol might loosen her up, and let her stick with her original plan for the evening: to actually enjoy herself. Thankfully, after one cocktail over the limit she would normally be comfortable with, it had done the trick- even if it _was_ temporary- and while she'd tried to be stealthy about it, the behaviour did, eventually, get noticed. Cass, who had made her way down to the festivities early- Veronica's comments about cheap booze had proved to be a tempting lure- to sample some of the various drinks being offered, trading some of her home-made 'White Lightning' for free cocktails, had been watching.

"Seen you drink before," Veronica heard over her shoulder, the gunslinger's tone befitting the big-sisterly advice she offered, "and it doesn't usually take you much to get hammered. Think you might wanna take it easy for a little while, get some food before you push your limits."

Veronica, glancing over her shoulder and, as if in defiance, taking a sip of the vodka-martini she had in-hand, drawled a wry, "Sure thing, mom," once she'd lowered her drink.

"Just saying," Cass said, shrugging nonchalantly. "You were the one that got your panties in a twist about blacking out."

Ah, right. The black-out. The one and only time there had been so much as a hint of something other than tension between them. There'd been a kiss, Cass had reported the night after- one that Veronica had initiated and, apparently, had missed out on completely. And while normally, she'd have been adverse to being reminded, the former scribe instead offered up a sly smile.

She hadn't forgotten her reasons for calling off any flirtation earlier- but those reasons seemed less and less important, the more she let the cocktails she'd had work their way into her system.

"Only because I forgot the best part of that evening," she replied, careful not to wait too long before saying it. "So... maybe, if you jogged my memory, it wouldn't bug me so much."

"The way you're throwing down," Cass said, grinning lopsidedly at the response, and casually stealing Veronica's drink from her hand before another sip could be taken, "you'll forget the reminder, too," the martini downed in one go. Before the former scribe could protest, however, she added, "And I thought you said you wanted me to lay off tonight."

Well. She could get angry about the drink- or she could take the opportunity for what it was worth.

Opting for the latter, she said, "I changed my mind," returning Cass's easy smile with a provocative one of her own.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Assured that most of the Lucky 38's temporary residents weren't liable to return to the casino anytime soon, the two women had found a quiet spot in the far corner, behind the VIP lounge, and next to a pair of double doors that hadn't been opened in some time. It seemed amusing that they'd gone to such lengths to stay obscured, but as Cass had said- better the floor than one of the nearby roulette tables. And at the very least, their choice of locale wasn't likely to alert Lily to what was going on.<p>

Seated where they were, their voice didn't carry, the thrum of the ventilation making it so the echoes of their voices would- presumably- be muffled, and they were far enough away from the entrance to keep anything unorthodox out of plain sight. Still, the risk, the peculiar choice in location; they added an extra thrill to the upcoming exchange, one that Veronica immediately found her thoughts at war with. Reminded of why she'd been hesitant around the gunslinger, hesitant to accept the flirtation, the compliments, or the affection she so plainly desired, when Cass, upon seating herself next to the former scribe, raised a flask to her lips for a sip of the whiskey.

Veronica had been tempted, briefly, to stay the gunslinger's hand, but realized that it was already too late for that; both of them had had more than their fair share of liquor, and detoxifying wouldn't happen for some time.

"What's with the look?" she heard Cass ask, the question calling her out of her brief haze. "You do know it's okay to say you're getting cold feet, right?"

"It's- not that," Veronica said, her smile self-conscious. "There's just something I've been curious about."

Cass paused for a moment, her own curiosity- blending as it did with mild certainty that she knew what was coming- apparent in her expression. "Go on."

"Might be a bad time for it," Veronica said. "Actually... I _know_ it's a bad time for it. But I need to know-"

"-No," Cass said gently. "You don't."

They could've left it at that, easy... but as much as the former scribe would've wanted to, she knew- or part of her knew, at least- that there was no way she was going to continue without being sure. And the fact that Cass seemed to know, implicitly, what the question was...

"I think I do, actually," Veronica said, then, an apologetic look on her face. "I need to know if this'd be happening if you were sober."

"Keeping in mind that nothing's actually happened yet?" Cass said, though her wry smile faded when Veronica fixed her with a pointed look; not the time to dodge, she knew. "You really want an answer, don't you?"

Seemed like the response was obvious, but in a way, Veronica was warmed by the older woman's reluctance. Showed she cared, at least.

Returning the reluctant smile, then, the former scribe said, "Wouldn't be asking if I didn't," her hand raised to brush along the caraveneer's arm.

To the contact, Cass merely smiled, the apology on Veronica's own face reflected back at her, however belatedly. "Answer's no," she admitted. "But you knew that already."

Well. Now she knew.

"Not really your type, am I?" Veronica said, smiling lopsidedly; this time, she kept what little control she could on her disappointment, telling herself inwardly that it shouldn't matter.

"Not really," Cass said. "Well... not entirely," she amended, raising a hand to brush the backs of two fingers over the scribe's cheek, some loose strands of hair pushed back behind her ear. "Don't get me wrong, honey... I like you enough to find the idea pretty damned interesting, but I'm just in it for its own sake. Figured you came calling 'cause you knew, and didn't so much mind anymore."

"Anymore?"

Cass smirked. "You up and asked about it, didn't you?" she said, hand dropping. "Like I said... you can't tell me you didn't know any've this already."

"Guess I can't," Veronica said, smiling halfheartedly. "And I don't really _mind _the idea, I just-" She paused- and thought about it for a moment, trying, however hazily, to pinpoint what it was that bothered her about it. "It just seems like I'd spend the whole time wondering if it was something you really _wanted _to do, or if it was just- for me."

Letting out a short bark of laughter, Cass said, "Don't think I'd ever fuck around with someone for _their_ sake," grinning broadly at the implication, "but I get your meaning." Sobering, she said, "What you wanna know is whether or not you had anything to do with it."

"Yeah." A pause. "Well... I'm not so sure about that anymore," she admitted, feigning levity, "but... yeah. Can't say I wasn't curious."

"Don't worry," Cass said. "You're part of it. Wouldn't mess with a girl I didn't fancy, and you? You're something else. Hell of a girl to hit the trails with, and a goddamn riot when you're so trashed you can't see straight... but you and I, we're not lookin' for the same thing."

Though the implication that came before piqued Veronica's curiosity, she focused in on what came after, and asked, "What do you think I'm looking for?"

"Something more than what I can give you," Cass replied. "Something more than a couple hazy nights of nothin' but a few drinks and some sloppy rolls in the hay."

Veronica chuckled in spite of herself. "Now _that's_ romantic..."

"It's the only kind of romance I like," Cass said, offering an apologetic one-shoulder-shrug. "'Least- 'til I find a man that really does it for me. And near as I can tell, that's a ways off."

Not 'someone.' A man, specifically. That- Veronica took as no big surprise. It was just added confirmation.

"Always assumed that was the case," Veronica admitted. "Guess what really sealed it for me was thinking about how this'd play out if you were a man instead..." Cass refrained from making a glib comment to that, but Veronica could see the urge make itself apparent on her face. "Not that part," she said in response to the look she got. "But I think you get the idea. I shouldn't expect you to change your mind when there's no way in hell I'm about to- well."

"-Spread 'em for a man anytime soon," Cass said for her, grinning lopsidedly. "I know. You boxed my ears enough about that to put the message across loud'n clear. So... believe me, I know."

"I figured the fact that you weren't trying to set me up anymore meant some of it stuck," Veronica said, allowing for a genuine smile to cross her features, though she sobered quickly. "Can I just ask, though... if you're not really into women, why be with any of them?"

"Well," Cass said, smirking, "don't get me wrong. I'm not gonna think twice about takin' it from a decent lookin' guy who's gonna plow me like his life depends on it, but every once in a while? It's nice to be with someone who isn't looking to stick it in every goddamn chance they get. Other'n that? Might be that I took a shine to a girl's personality. Might be that I like her intensity, that somethin' about her makes me wanna know what she's like when she's just aching to let it all go."

There was a shift in the gunslinger's tone that reminded Veronica, immediately, of the urges that brought her here in the first place. That whole thing about enjoying herself- about letting go of all the usual pretenses, if only for a little while.

"Might be I like the look you get when you're all worked up," the gunslinger continued, raising a hand to brush her thumb over the former scribe's lower lip. "Kind've like the one you're wearin' now."

_Still as obvious as ever,_ Veronica chided herself, her smile turning self-conscious under a soft touch that should not have been nearly as gratifying as it was. "So you've thought about it?"

"Maybe not in the way _you_ would," Cass said, thumb trailing down to give the young woman's chin, "but yeah, I have."

"Not in the way I would? ...What's that mean, exactly?"

"Best you didn't ask," Cass replied, smiling wryly, hand lowering entirely. "What _I_ think about has a one-dick requirement to get me going, and like I said... I know how you feel about that."

The things even that admittance did to her- _And _**_why_**_ aren't you just going for it, again? Do you really care if there'll be a 'morning after?'_

When had she ever just- done something that felt good, regardless of the consequences?

_Never_, she thought, fighting the urge to look underwhelmed at her own expense, and hoping, however vainly, that she didn't look as flushed as she could swear she as. "Way to make me curious, at least," she said, then, tacitly moving on her earlier proposal by fetching Cass's open flask from her hand and, pausing for long enough to take a drink- all in the hopes of washing down what few doubts remained. Finding the burn wasn't quite as bad after several rounds already under her belt, she said, "Just one question..." a sly smile tugging at her lips, "did it do something for you?"

Arching her eyebrows, Cass took the flask back, and took a shot- and by the look in her eyes, she'd clearly getting the message that she'd just been given the green light. "Wouldn't be here if it didn't," she said simply, offering the metal container back to the former scribe.

She could still back out, she knew. Turn this whole thing around. But that, as with everything else, seemed like another cop-out. She'd risked her entire livelihood when she'd confronted Elder McNamara- seemed like she could take this opportunity for what it was worth and run with it.

Especially at one of the few times where the question, _what have you got to lose?_, rang entirely too true to her situation.

So, as the renewed shot of liquor warmed her system, she took hold of what little impulsiveness was capable of overriding her misgivings, and said, "Tell me about it."

"I did say there's a one-dick requirement, right?" Cass said, nudging Veronica to lean back against the wall with a hand at her sternum, the flask retrieved. "Don't know how much you'll get out of hearing about it."

Easing back, her knees lifted from the ground to free the material of her skirts, Veronica said, "Guess it depends," bolstered by the reaction she got, her hands raising to open with the buttons on Cass's shirt once the older woman had settled between her legs. "Am I a respectable distance from 'the help,' or-" She paused, seeing the sly look she was getting as its own admittance. "I'm not, am I?"

"Not gonna lie to you," Cass said, shrugging one shoulder, placing her hand over Veronica's breast, voice deepening. "Got plenty out've the idea've being a tag-along on your first go at it. Or hell, might be second... but just bein' there to see it..."

It wasn't the idea itself that intrigued her- in hindsight, she wasn't entirely sure how she'd feel about it- so much as the implication that came with it, one that nearly distracted her from the subtle squeeze of Cass's hand. "Is that why you kept trying to set me up?" she asked, a quirky smile coming in lieu of the question as she parted the material she'd unbuttoned.

"Guilty," Cass admitted, tugging at the material of the young woman's dress to pull it down-

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Before she'd finally crawled into bed that night, Veronica had taken Cass up on a round of burnt toast and something the gunslinger claimed was for hydration. She hadn't thought about why either was necessary, still flushed and radiating contentment after their activities downstairs, far from minding the idea of being doted on. It was only when she awoke that she realized just how necessary those small additions to the evening had been.<p>

Roused with a mild headache and a slightly dry taste in her mouth, she recognized, without question, just how hung over she _ought_ to be, in comparison to how she felt. She'd gotten her first taste of what 'hangover' actually meant earlier on in her travels with the courier, so wiped out the next morning that she had thought- was convinced- that she was as sick as sick could be. It took Kette and Cass both going to great lengths to explain that no, she was fine, to convince her otherwise.

Veronica paused on that thought, looking up towards the ceiling of the guest suite. She could hear soft breathing beside her, even through Boone's- or Arcade's, she'd never found out who was to blame for it- halted snoring from the next bed over. Glancing to one side, she could see Cass's face- see the woman's contentment, and remembered, with amazing clarity, what had happened the night before. At first, her stomach tightened at the thought, gaze snapping back to the ceiling, but the desperate search of her memory revealed little more than what amounted to... an incredibly enjoyable experience, one she quietly called to mind as she listened to the soft, rhythmic sounds permeating the room.

Though some parts of her memory were expectedly blurry, most of it remained intact. She could recall leaning back against the far wall of the Lucky 38 casino floor- the caravaneer looming over her, legs straddling her hips, a hand between her thighs- well away from the sight of prying eyes. More importantly, she could remember the look on Cass's face, how visibly reactive the older woman had been to her touch, unabashed, and unapologetic, a state that was infectious in its own right; a state that lead on to an enviably powerful climax. Veronica hadn't shied when all attention was turned to her in those moments after the fact, hadn't protested having her skirts pulled up along her legs, baring her to anyone who might peek around the corner; hadn't minded the crude words murmured into her ear as Cass pressed up against her side, hand between her thighs, legs hooked around one of her own-

She hadn't held back, hadn't forced herself to remain composed... hadn't put a single thought towards outward appearances. For what felt like the first time in her life, she'd only indulged, enjoyed the sensations, the closeness, the attention, all for what it was worth. It'd been brazen, contradictory to her usual behaviours, far removed from anything she'd done before... and it'd been wonderful.

Warmed by the memory, her eyes turning back to Cass's face, Veronica could see a hint of the contentment that had been in full view the night before. And though she smiled, briefly, at seeing it again, the moment turned somber. It'd be a while before she saw any of these people again, let alone Cass, or Kette, dependent on the decision she made. Though, she couldn't help but wonder if she was fooling herself, thinking there was any decision to be made at all. She tried, then, to put her focus instead on the more pleasant memories of the night before, to focus on the warmth of the body beside hers, but found that, no matter how much effort she put into it, relaxation was quickly becoming evasive.

Instead of laying where she was, awake and suddenly more uncomfortable than she wanted to be, she rose from the bed, grabbed what few items of clothing she cared to pull on, and dressed, moving quietly towards the light shining in from the foyer. It was only when she'd crossed the threshold that her discomfort became a sudden heaviness, the pleasant haze she'd woken up to all but erased.

The room was empty, the remainder of the suite bereft of activity. Peering into the game room across from the dining area, she could see Raul sleeping on the couch, Rex curled into a cozy ball on the floor alongside him. Of Lily, she'd seen no signs, though she assumed that, same as usual, Kette had allowed the elderly Nightkin to use the large bed in the master bedroom. It was peculiar to be the only one awake, with no real idea of what time it was. It wasn't as if she'd never been alone in the suite before; wasn't as if she hadn't noticed how quiet it could get... but now, it already felt like walking through another memory.

It was only when she entered the dining room that she saw signs of activity, the little eyebot that had become one of Kette's constant companions hovering quietly near the table. She smiled reflexively at it when it turned to look at her, preferring, as always, to interpret the flick of its antenna as some sort of greeting.

"Good to see someone's awake," she said gently, grabbing an unspoiled apple from the fridge and seating herself at the table.

The eyebot flicked its antenna again, a series of beeps emitting from it. Veronica had told herself that it was just an automated response, that the robot wasn't likely to be programmed with anything resembling a personality- but every once in a while, it came through.

"You left your home, too, didn't you?" she said. "In Chicago, right?"

Was it her imagination, or did the downward tilt of its antenna give a signal all its own?

Deciding to let her imagination run with her for a time, if only for the sense that she had some actual, sympathetic company, she said, "I have to leave my home, too, soon. At least... that seems to be what this is all leading to."

ED-E's antenna perked slightly, its frame tilting just enough to give it an almost inquisitive look, like Rex whenever he cocked his head to one side.

"Be better if I didn't go into it," she said gently. "It's kind of a long story."

"We've got all the time in the world to listen, dearie," she heard behind her, the gravelly voice of the elderly Nightkin making her jump.

Taking a breath to steel her suddenly-frayed nerves, Veronica let out a light chuckle, glancing over her shoulder to see Lily towering over her. "Geez, Lily, you scared the crap out of me..."

"Oh, goodness, I'm sorry," Lily said gently. "It wasn't my intention."

"I know," Veronica said, letting some of the tension bleed out of her shoulders. "Just never could get over how quiet you can be sometimes. ...I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Oh, heavens, no," Lily said, waving off the question. "This time of morning, it's always difficult to sleep."

"Why is that?"

"Old habits, dearie," Lily said, arranging a pair of dining room chairs for her to rest her weight on, not wanting to over stress the furniture. Seating herself across from Veronica, she said, "Now... tell grandma what's got you so down."

"I'm not-" Somehow, the mutant's subtle shift in expression managed to reek of incredulity, the look cutting her short. "Well... I suppose it's safe to say that I've had better days."

At that, the eyebot lowered slightly, its attention focused squarely on Veronica- as intent on listening as Lily was, apparently. Glancing between the two, and getting the distinct feeling that her imagination wasn't entirely off-track, she considered declining for a moment- but in no time, found herself beginning to talk, instead, about far more than she'd initially intended. It was all there, by the end of it, and it was only on the admittance of what she'd once been a part of that she'd hesitated. Lily, for all the elderly Nightkin's understanding nature, was still a remnant of the Master's Army, a once sworn enemy of the Brotherhood.

But Lily hadn't reacted poorly. She just listened, same way she always did, pausing only to say, "Oh, Leo, she's not with them any more," as the only nod to any remnant aggression. "And besides, she's always been such a nice young lady."

On that, there was apparently some grudging agreement.

By the end of the conversation, Veronica was no closer to a solution than she was in the beginning, but her concerns, at least, were eased for the time being. The mutant's suggestion to take her time, not over think the problem, and do what felt right- for all those involved- were all things she'd told herself numerous times, but it had done little to alleviate the pressure on her chest. Somehow, though, hearing it from someone else- helped. Enough that she could excuse herself, and, after an impromptu, nigh-suffocating hug from the elderly Nightkin, return to the guest room.

Briefly, she considered bedding down on one of the couches, in an effort to keep from tempting her mind to fall into another tailspin. In the end, she decided that physically removing herself from the people she'd gotten to know, either peripherally or intimately, would be far more counterproductive, and instead, divested herself of what little clothing she was comfortable shedding, crawled back under the covers to lay next to the gunslinger. Cass had her back to the former scribe, a move that might have seemed a little too fitting none too long ago- but instead of letting herself dwell on that point, Veronica instead draped her arm over the other woman's side, enjoying the warmth while she still had a chance to.

There, she relaxed, and let herself drift back off to sleep, dimly aware in those last few moments of consciousness that she had, no matter what she told herself, made her final decision.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>At daybreak, the only people who weren't passed-out from a night of drunken excess were Lily and Kette, the Nightkin greeting Veronica warmly whereas the latter...<p>

"Hate to have to do this to you," Kette had said groggily, the bags under her eyes and the look on her face- Veronica didn't want to think it was _hateful_, but few words could be applied when a hangover of that magnitude was involved- proving her contempt for being awakened. "...But Colonel Moore's at the Embassy. She wants to see you."

Veronica's baseline mood took an immediate nosedive. "Did she say why?"

"No," Kette said, "but I'm sure you can guess."

"Goodness," Lily said, appearing as worried as a Nightkin was capable, "I hope it's nothing serious."

Veronica offered the Nightkin what she hoped to pass off as a reassuring smile. "It's probably just a follow-up," she said, her voice contradicting her expression.

"You need some company?" Kette asked, brow knitting faintly.

Veronica resisted the urge to retort with something disparaging, instead replying, "You sure you're capable of being mobile?"

"No," Kette said, smiling lopsidedly.

"Well," Veronica said, "I appreciate the offer, at least... but I think I'll be fine on my own this time around."

"Are you sure, dear?" Lily interjected. "I don't like the sound of this. Not one bit."

Veronica smiled wanly. "I'm sure."

"Well..." Lily gave the scribe a pat on the head, careful not to muss her hair. "You do what you think is best, pumpkin. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"I will."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>The conversation with the Colonel had started with a few pointed insults aimed in Veronica's direction- "you're as stubborn and short-sighted as I'd expect a member of the Brotherhood to be, former or not," she'd said from the get-go- but there were plenty of distractions to keep the scribe from coming back with her own biting remarks. She was told, in no uncertain terms, that her unwillingness to sign on the dotted line early on had spelled doom for any possible leeway at the negotiating table. The NCR's initial memorandum to the Brotherhood concerning those negotiations had been sent out, and the Brotherhood's response made it impossible for later inclusion into the peace talks; as the colonel had warned, they'd made it a point to list "keeping exiles out of NCR settlements" as part of the requirements for continuing with the peace treaty.<p>

They had stated that while they were grateful for Veronica's involvement- without her, it was said, the truce, and the efforts of peace would not have been possible- and that while they understood her need to seek asylum under the circumstances, they were in no way comfortable with her taking residence within any NCR territories.

Within the year, Moore told her, the NCR expected to have annexed most of the Mojave. It hit hard, the knowledge that even the 188 Trading Post was for all intents and purposes off limits to her already, with more locations to follow. There was, quite literally, nowhere to go except far, far away. Though there was little else to talk about past that, there was at least one thing Veronica wanted to know.

"So..." Veronica cleared her throat. "Can I ask... why you decided to tell me this in person?" Certain she was in the clear, she raised her eyes again, startled to see a vaguely sympathetic look from the Colonel.

"While I think you're a world-class idiot for failing to consider this as a possibility," Moore told her, "you did do me a favor."

"I'd say you didn't give me much of a choice," Veronica said, "but I suppose gunning me down immediately after that talk we had wouldn't have looked good on your record."

Moore allowed her a wry smile. "Imagine that," she said. "You're brighter than I thought."

"I do what I can."

"Beyond that," Moore continued from her earlier point, "your willingness to rise above your admirable, albeit woefully misguided sense of loyalty for the sake of someone who may have been responsible for the untimely deaths of your parents..." She paused, gaging the scribe's reaction before continuing. "I'm not sure if that's a colossal feat of ignorance on your part, or a credit to you as a human being. Either way, it deserved recognition."

Veronica let out an abrupt chuckle, unable to contain her amusement at the rather back-handed compliment. "I appreciate that? I think?"

Moore afforded her another subdued smile. "You'd better." Beat. "One other thing..."

Veronica canted her head as the colonel rifled around in one of her pockets, the older woman approaching her once she seemed to find what she was looking for.

"About something you said before we parted ways," she said. "I decided to ask around about it." Raising her hand, Moore presented Veronica with a pair of Brotherhood holotags, waiting for the former scribe to accept them before continuing. "Turns out at least one of the men I served with recognized the name. It took calling in a favor, but since you seemed hellbent on ruining what's left of your life, I thought a small gesture might be in order."

Veronica turned the tags over in her hands, utterly mystified. She hadn't expected that her question would lead anywhere- or that she'd wanted it to. That it had, that the Colonel had followed up on it... to say it blew her mind was an understatement. The name, the serial numbers- she knew immediately who they belonged to.

Reminders of her mother were rare. To have a reminder of why she wasn't around anymore-

"...I, uhm..." No matter how much self-control the former scribe possessed, she was incapable of keeping her eyes from welling up, the impact of the gesture hitting her like a ton of bricks. "I don't..." blinking a couple times, she tried to steel herself with a slow breath, clearing her throat to continue with, "I don't really know what to say. ...Thank you?"

"Considering how they came into my possession, I'm not sure thanks are in order," Moore told her, doing Veronica the favor of refraining from making comment on her emotional state; what recognition there was of it was strictly unspoken.

"What- I know you said... I did you a favor, but this-" Veronica turned the tags over in her hand, still as befuddled as she was stricken by their presence. "Why?"

"I have my reasons," Moore replied, but offered little else by way of explanation.

As curious as she was, Veronica didn't press any further; though the colonel was being surprisingly personable, there was no reason to believe she could get away with pushing for more information. In truth, what she'd already received was... more than enough.

"So that's it?" she asked, wincing inwardly at the waver in her voice.

"That's it."

"Alright. Um..." She didn't bother to say 'thank you' again; Moore was right, it sounded absurd. "I guess I won't ever see you again, huh?"

Moore offered her a wry half-smile. "I'd say that's a pretty safe assumption."

Veronica raised her free hand to offer it to the colonel, making eye contact in spite of the evidence of her reaction still plain on her face. "It was... good to meet you," she said, in all honesty, as strange as it seemed to say.

Accepting Veronica's hand for a brief, firm shake, Moore said, "Same to you, Ms. Santangelo," returning Veronica's honesty with some of her own. "And good luck."


	5. Damn Fine

Major props and almost complete credit for this segment goes to Inboxhere for supplying a great deal of the prose. I asked them to do me a solid by writing this segment because it's only been recently that I've been able to write Arcade in a way that was at all believable, and I wanted to have some of the other companions present for at least a segment or two before things get underway.

I did most of Veronica's lines, added context, threw in some inserts here and there, but that's about all of it. All the Arcade and Boone dialogue is almost entirely theirs.

Cuteness overload in this portion. I'm not kidding. :V

Anyway, I urge you to go over to Inbox's profile page and pick through their luverly stories. They're an amazing author, even if they claim they're not on a regular basis. Silly, silly, Inbox.

* * *

><p>[ 11 :: Damn Fine ]<p>

* * *

><p>So there she was, minding her own business, making her way through the main foyer when all of a sudden-<p>

"Wipe that pout off your face," Arcade said, catching Veronica's hand and forcing her into a little dance spin. "You're making me miserable just looking at you."

She disentangled herself and made a show of smoothing out the plainclothes she'd changed into, ignoring his broad grin. "That was aggravated dancing, Arcade. Pull another stunt like that and I'll dislocate your arm."

It had been less than an hour since she'd arrived back at the Lucky 38. Kette had taken the chance to sleep, Lily was napping, and Veronica had been under the illusion of having some time to herself. To mull over the conversation with Colonel Moore, to weigh her options- _option, singular, _she'd reminded herself ruefully, on multiple occasions- and to stare idly at the holotags she'd been given. It was enough to make her forget that she shared the Presidential Suite with others.

Either way, with her thoughts a tangled mess of unhappy decisions to consider, 'complimented' by a dour mood that could topple entire cities were it allowed to take physical shape, she'd needed the privacy.

Not so, Arcade had so _eloquently_ declared with his sudden appearance, jarring her out of her one-woman salute to misery and into a situation she should really have gotten accustomed to by now.

Arcade's grin grew wider and, if she hadn't been occupied with a head full of confusion, she would've known to duck out of the way. Arcade Gannon wasn't someone who could be frequently pinned with the adjective 'playful', but when the mood struck him he was completely incorrigible. He scooped her up easily, tossing her over one shoulder in a fireman's lift.

She pounded half-heartedly on his back. "_Oh my god,_" she barked at him, unwilling to struggle _too_ hard on the off-chance he, say, dropped her right on her head. "_Put me down_, you ass!"

"You're too thin," he said to her legs, spinning around in a circle until she squealed. "Clearly we need to go to the kitchen and rectify this."

If anyone else thought Arcade carrying Veronica across the apartment like she was a pretty sack of potatoes was in any way out of the ordinary, they didn't show it. He nodded cordially to Raul and neatly turned sideways to fit through the kitchen door.

The ghoul merely blinked- and shrugged, muttering under his breath as he ambled off towards the rec room.

Boone, picking through one of Kette's many magazines glorifying heavy artillery, barely blinked at the unaccustomed sight, and in fact made the first joke Veronica had every heard him say. Admittedly it was only _how's the weather up there_ but still, that just served to make the day even more of a milestone.

"Ignore him," said Arcade, neatly depositing her on the kitchen bench and immediately pressing a glazed- surprisingly soft, slightly warm- sweet roll into her hands. "He actually makes a lot of jokes, but most of them aren't funny."

"Hey," said Boone, more out of reflex than actual defence of his weak sense of humour. "Hey. Don't bring me into this."

Arcade ignored him. "Eat," he said to the belligerent former scribe.

Of all the times to play 'getting to know you.'

Among those present at the '38, Cass had been the only person that Veronica had spent a great deal of time with. Boone she'd seen in passing and, after a brief conversation about her hood versus his kicky beret- re: whose hat was more peculiar- his blatant suspicion of her had lead her to keep her distance. Arcade, well... she'd found herself talking to him now and again, but thanks almost entirely to what had occurred at the Followers' Outpost, she hadn't felt comfortable maintaining steady conversation with him. It seemed like a shame; those times she had spoken to him, she found him to be incredibly engaging, if not a bit opinionated.

At the moment, she opted to replace 'engaging' with 'irritating'- but opinionated, at least, stayed the same.

"I'm not hungry." Veronica muttered, eying the sweet roll suspiciously. "Where the heck did these come from, anyway?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "For all I know, this is some dastardly plot to poison me."

Arcade laughed. "_Dastardly_," he repeated, amused. "Think I could use it as my middle name?"

Veronica's scrunched expression of pure ire did little to temper the man's merriment. _Ass._

"Lily made the food," Boone said to Veronica in an absent aside.

"Oh." Veronica peered at the roll a second time, movement out of her peripheral vision calling her attention back to Arcade. He mimed eating until she rolled her eyes and finally took a bite out of the roll. "I'm only eating this to save your dignity," she muttered around a mouthful. "And because Lily's a good cook."

"Good cook," said Boone, nodding absently in agreeance. "Big portions."

Arcade cleared his throat. "I'd chastise you about your manners," he said to Veronica, "but I've sat across the table from Boone too many times. I am completely numb to such appalling table habits. The ability to be shocked has been burnt from me."

A testy _hey_ immediately volleyed from behind his elbow and Arcade waved it away. Veronica frowned at him as she chewed, unwilling to admit the sweet roll was actually a pretty good idea. She'd been running on adrenaline all morning, and having something in her stomach was quelling the shakes nicely. Arcade could be somewhat insufferable when he'd been proven right on a completely petty issue though, so it was just easier to pretend eating was a chore.

He took a step back and looked over her with a critical eye, one finger tapping against his lip. "You actually remind me of someone. Someone who is also allergic to fun."

"I'm not allergic to fun," she protested, dusting bread crumbs off her shirt. "I'm just-"

Whatever she was going to say in her defence was quickly drowned out by the faintly ridiculous spectacle of Arcade liberating Boone's beret, taking advantage of the height difference to keep it from being immediately snatched back. He performed a somewhat impressive move of simultaneously blocking Boone and, before she could protectively cover her head with sticky, glaze-covered fingers, set the beret on her head at a jaunty angle, favoring the new accessory with an impressed noise.

"It's hot," she observed dryly, with no real rancour behind her words. "In a bad way. And _sweaty_," she added, nose wrinkled. "What the heck have you been doing with this thing?"

"It's been on my head all day," Boone told her flatly, looking between the two of them. "I'd like my beret back, please."

Arcade neatly hip-checked Boone out of the way again. "There's something missing." He turned on the spot with a flourish, taking a step towards the sniper.

"Uh..." Veronica began tentatively, "can I ask-"

"Oh no," Boone said suddenly, interrupting the scribe's question as he leveled a pointed stare on Arcade. "No, you can't."

"Oh yes. Yes, I can. Don't fight, it'll be over so much quicker if you just give in."

There was a brief scuffle and Veronica pressed a finger to her lips, willing herself not to explode into a fit of giggles. After a few moments, Arcade presented her with a pair of sunglasses, holding them up in front of her face, giving her the opportunity to put them on herself before he did it for her. To some degree, she could already tell what he was going for, a light twitch of her lip signaling her concession as she swiped the sunglasses from his hands to grudgingly slip them on.

"I should point out that these are also hot and sweaty," she informed them blandly.

Boone folded his arms. "My head. All day."

"If your _eyes_ sweat," Veronica told him, mirroring his posture to make light of his obvious irritation, "you should really think about seeing a doctor." Beat. "So is there a reason for the fashion show," she said to Arcade, "or are you gonna leave me guessing?"

The room fell silent. Slowly, Veronica began to realize that the two of them were looking at her more intently than she was comfortable with.

"What?" she asked, deadpan.

"You could be brother and sister," Arcade remarked to Boone, smirking wryly.

Boone thumbed his chin, appearing almost... thoughtful. "Do I always look like that?" he asked, pointing loosely at the scribe.

"This is how you look every day," Arcade said with a sage-like nod. "Trust me, I know."

"Huh." Boone propped his chin on his hand and gave her a critical look.

Veronica shot him a wearied look of her own, an expression that drove Arcade to clap a hand to his mouth, struggling to hold back his laughter.

"Well, I don't see what the problem is." Boone gave the beret a final tweak, lining the badge up with the edge of her glasses. "If that's what I look like, then I'm looking damn fine."

Alright, so that earned him a smile, loathe though Veronica may have been to play along.

"Sweet talker," muttered Arcade, gently sliding the glasses from her face and handing them back to their owner.

"Honestly," replied Veronica in a stage whisper. "It's the most I've ever heard him say,"

"Damn fine," Boone repeated, and made an impatient give it here motion for his hat.

Her hair was smoothed back down by the time Boone had repositioned his beret in an acceptable fashion, and she reached forward to return the favour and straighten the soft red wool. It felt strange to be acting so familiar with Arcade and Boone, not after months of hesitantly skirting each other in the cramped casino apartment.

"Hey," she said warmly, giving the badge one last flick. "Looking damn fine, little brother."

He'd smirked at her, reaching up to flick at a lock of her hair before turning back to the dining room table. It wasn't until Arcade had turned his attention away as well that she let her expression falter.

_God, I'm gonna miss this..._


	6. This Wasn't On My 'To Do' List

Hooray, intro nearly over! Now onto the actual 'things start moving' portions of the story.

* * *

><p>[ 12 :: This Wasn't On My To-Do List ]<p>

* * *

><p>The brief interaction, though pleasant, was enough to kick Veronica into high gear. The longer she stayed with the people milling about the suite, the more inclined she'd be to sticking around, or finding a way to that would be, in the best of circumstances, ill advised. It was too easy to fall into simple conversations with them, too comfortable to be someone other than a Scribe, a member of the Brotherhood, an outcast. She was just one of them, simple as that... and now, she had to make it a point to extricate herself from it.<p>

Before something else adorable and endearing happened.

"When were you gonna tell me you were leaving?"

_Too late_. Veronica shouldn't have been surprised to hear Kette's voice, though 'surprise' may not have been the right word for it. Anxious was. The question itself was also far from surprising- between Lily and Cass, Kette had two sources of the same information- and just as inspiring when it came to her levels of anxiety. And, given the fact that she was wandering around getting her things together for the sole purpose of high-tailing it to the very edge of the Mojave until she had a decent game plan- though to _where_, she had no idea- she couldn't deny what she had in mind, or claim that she'd been misheard by her 'roommates.'

"Now seems like a good time," Veronica replied, looking up from her packing to see the surprisingly downtrodden expression on the Courier's face. "Or... not."

"This isn't about the deal I tried to set up with Moore, is it?" Kette asked tentatively. "'Cause the percentage thing wasn't the only reason I had for setting all that up."

Veronica just grinned lopsidedly, letting out a soft chuckle, amused by Kette's choice of words. "I know," she said. "And it's not," she added quickly, heading the question she _knew_ was sure to follow with a soft, "I wasn't really sure about leaving, either... not until this morning, anyway."

Kette eased a little. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Veronica's smile faded, a glance cast towards her half-organized belongings.

There was a million lines of subtext crammed into that single exchange that had nothing to do with the words spoken, most of it revolving around the topic Veronica had been struggling with over the past couple nights. The Outpost- what the incident had done to her relationship with the younger woman. At a time like this, she didn't want to encourage any conversation about it. Thus, she did her best to explain the situation to the courier without letting it sour her mood too overtly, making it a point to put some distance between herself and the impact. She thought of mentioning the holotags, but knew without question that doing so would only make things more ... difficult.

"So what are you gonna do?" Kette asked, clearly unsure of what to say- or what condolences to make- in light of what she'd been told. "Just... leave the Mojave entirely?"

"I'd rather not," Veronica said, giving a listless shrug of her shoulder. "Believe me," she continued, smiling humorlessly, "this wasn't on my to-do list."

"I still have an in with the Brotherhood," Kette reminded her, as she had many times before. "I could talk to them. See if maybe-"

"No," Veronica said, cutting the Courier off. "No... I'd rather not get my hopes up, honestly. Even if the Brotherhood agrees, you'd still have to get the NCR brass to go with it."

"They still think I'm some kinda hero, remember," Kette pointed out to her. "I could always-"

"Kette," Veronica interrupted her, exasperated. "Please. I said no."

Kette straightened, taking the rebuke as well as she was able. Veronica had to give her credit, at least; for how unreasonable the girl could be, she was doing a good job of keeping her head on her shoulders.

"It's gonna be real weird," she said gently, "not having you around."

"I'm sure it'll suck," Veronica replied teasingly. "I mean, really, who else is gonna let you sell the clothes off their back for a quick dime?"

For a moment, Kette looked genuinely offended. "I'm serious."

Having the good sense to look apologetic, Veronica turned her eyes to the floor, sobering. "I know," she said gently. "Sorry. Force of habit, I guess."

Silence fell between them, Kette's expression slowly losing its irritated edge, a grudging smile curling over her lips.

"Sorry I tried to sell your clothes," she said, as good-naturedly as she could manage.

Veronica looked at the courier sidelong, an incredulous, albeit amused smile on her face. "You didn't _try_ to sell them," she reminded the younger woman, "you _did_ sell them." Shaking her head and returning to her packing, she said, "You _do_ realize just how bogus that was, don't you?"

"Annoying enough to warrant the word 'bogus?'" Kette said, her own smile broadening. "I dunno... it seemed like a good idea at the time."

Pausing again to look at Kette wearily, Veronica's continued bemusement could not have been plainer. "When you give your buddy a long-winded speech about trying to serve the less fortunate," she said, "you might wanna consider _actually_ serving the less fortunate. _You_ bought a brahmin burger."

"I was hungry!" Kette protested, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Besides, I gave you something to wear."

Veronica snorted. "Yeah, a ripped t-shirt and a pair of overalls that barely went past my knees," she said, beaning a rolled-up sock off of Kette's head before she had time to deflect it. "I nearly froze on the way home." And she shuddered to think of the sunburn she'd have gotten if it had been daytime.

Kette rubbed her head, smiling apologetically. "But you made it, right?"

Veronica grinned. "No thanks to you."

"So how about I make it up to you?"

"Depends on what you had in mind."

"It's not what I had in mind, actually," Kette told her. "This was Lily's idea."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Jacobstown?<em>"

Kette had taken her there before- it was where she'd been introduced to Lily in the first place, prior to the Nightkin taking up residence with them in the Lucky 38- and it was, in every respect, a culture shock. Veronica had little interaction with super mutants in the past, those clashes she _had_ been involved in during her tenure with the Brotherhood ending in hostilities more often than not. In seeing the town, things she hadn't considered before, ideals with which she'd been raised, had become a source of discomfort.

The Brotherhood taught contempt for the creatures, even when they weren't trying to. Throughout her formative years, she had been subject to numerous training sims that depicted super mutants as slavering brutes, mindless savages hell-bent on murdering, maiming and- depending on who she listened to, brutally raping- everything they got their hands on. She had learned the rhetoric of older members who still made their distaste for them abundantly clear with tales of how the hulking creatures slept in their own filth, preyed off one another in times of famine... all manner of horrible things. The more time that passed since those years, however, the more it became clear that the mutants no longer posed such a dire threat and thus, they'd become little more than a footnote in the Brotherhood's history, easily forgotten and hardly worth mentioning. The only trace of them to be found in the California bunker she'd left behind were the overglorified murals depicting Brotherhood Paladins laying waste to the Master's Army.

The isolated community, the mutants she'd heard Kette speak to, had significantly darkened the memory of those murals, and when it came right down to it, it was Lily who had showed her just how little she knew. Hearing the words of such a sweet old lady- with a dark presence lingering alongside her, granted- coming from a hulking powerhouse with a voice that could stop artillery fire had thrown her off completely, her reaction not too dissimilar from Kette's save for one caveat: it brought into perspective one of the many sins committed by the family she'd left behind.

On that basis, the idea Lily had presented, with Kette in tow, had a strange kind of merit to it.

"Yes, dear," Lily answered her cheerfully. "That lovely young man, ah- what was his name?"

"Raul," Kette reminded her.

"Raul, yes. Such a sweet fellow... asked if he could go with me. Goodness knows why, after all the poor thing's been through."

Veronica's evident confusion based on a clear lack of context prompted Kette to add, "Got mixed up with the Black Mountain Nightkin," as an aside.

"Ah." She wasn't sure what all that had entailed, granted, but she'd heard enough to get the gist of it.

"So you see," Lily continued, "you'd be in good company."

"But..." Veronica paused. She didn't want to shirk the Nightkin's generosity, but there were questions to be answered. First off, "What would I do there?"

"Oh, all kinds of things!"

"They could really use someone with your skills," Kette pointed out, heading Lily off at the pass to keep 'herding Bighorners' from being mentioned. "Between you and Raul, they'd be up to a level of sophistication that could keep them pretty self-sufficient."

"I keep forgetting he's the go-to guy for repairs," Veronica admitted. "I, ah... I really haven't talked to him much, honestly."

"Such a sweet fellow," Lily repeated; despite the constricting vices laced through her teeth, Veronica could almost see the smile on her face.

While the idea reeked of having all the same pitfalls as the deal with the NCR, there weren't nearly as many stipulations... and none that were likely to be offered. As if sensing Veronica's hesitance and knowing full well what the reason for it was likely to be, the courier cleared her throat.

"They wouldn't have you do anything you weren't comfortable with," Kette told her gently.

"Oh my heavens, no!" Lily said, as if aghast that the possibility could even be considered. "Just what you can do to help out, sweetheart. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And you don't have to make up your mind right now, you know," Kette reminded her. "This is just an idea."

"Oh," Lily continued, "it'd be just _wonderful_ to have a nice young lady like you out there with me. Just wonderful..." She sighed. "It'd almost be like having one of my grandkids around."

Of all the things to make her really think hard about it...

Veronica could feel a bemused smile starting to tug at her lips. The last surrogate grandparent she'd had wasn't a glowing example, really... but the idea of inheriting a truly kind and utterly bizarre one sounded oddly entertaining.

"Think you'd be up for taking a trip up there, at least?" Kette asked. "Talk to Marcus a little-"

"Marcus is the 'Mayor,'" Lily interjected helpfully.

Kette smiled. "See if it'll work out?"

_Of all the places I thought my life would take me..._

"Sure," Veronica sighed, her smile sobering. "Why not?"

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>True to form, Cass didn't rise from her deep sleep until well into the afternoon. Once she had- it never ceased to amaze Veronica just how much the older woman could drink without a) waking up with a wicked hangover, b) dying, or c) dying horribly. The offer had been made to pass on a few tricks for dodging the worst of alcohol's evil cousin, The Morning After, but Veronica wasn't convinced of their validity. Slowly, that opinion had started to change.<p>

When they talked, they'd sought privacy in the deserted ground floor, seating themselves at one of the tables in the VIP lounge. Though it was supposed to be the main topic of conversation, there was little mention of the intimacies shared during the celebration, save a mutual agreement that it was pleasant, had ended on a note of amped-up frustration, and yes, it would probably be nice if it happened again, even if it wasn't all that likely. But that was when Veronica made the mistake of bringing up her concerns and, of course, her tentative plans for a decidedly strange future.

To the notion of going to Jacobstown, Cass had but one thing to say, initially: "You're kidding."

Veronica steepled her fingers in front of her, elbows leaning against the table as she glanced towards the caravaneer hesitantly. "Doesn't sound like much, I know-"

"It's a mutie town, you dumb broad!" Cass exclaimed, brow furrowed. "The hell are you trying to do, get yourself killed?"

Veronica paused, squinting at Cass curiously. "'Dumb broad?'" she asked, an amused smile on her face. "You," she said, pointing towards Cass to punctuate, "clearly spent _way_ too much time hustling the Chairmen for booze last night."

"I-" Cass huffed. "Shut up," she muttered. "It worked, didn't it?" Beat. "And that's not even the point! Goddamn, girl, have you completely lost your mind?"

"Have you ever been up there?"

"No," Cass admitted. "Wouldn't matter if I had been, either."

"Why not? You seem to like Lily just fine. Maybe you'd like some of the others."

Cass snorted, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her arms over her chest. "She's different," she said. "It's hard to hate a dottering old woman, even if she _can_ flick my head off with her goddamn pinky finger."

Veronica sighed. "Listen," she said, lacing her fingers together in front of her on the table, "I understand where you're coming from. As much as I hate to admit it, it's not too far off from how I used to feel about mutants in general."

"Lily aside?" Cass told her, "they sure as christ aren't gonna be as quick to be all sweet'n cuddly towards you. Even the best of them'd be more'n happy to rip your arms off and wear 'em on a charm bracelet."

The two of them went silent. Steeling herself, Veronica looked down at the table, teeth worrying at the inside of her lip.

"I don't have that many options, Cass," she said in all honesty, looking towards the entrance of the Casino when she finally raised her eyes. "If I wanna stay anywhere near the people I've gotten to know through all this- in a place the NCR _and_ the Brotherhood want no part of..." She shook her head. "I don't like it either," she said. "But it's something. Hell of a lot more than I had this morning."

Cass frowned, the irritation she sported slowly being replaced with consideration. "You got a shit deal, I'll say that much. Can't even go back to California, can you?"

"I suppose there's a chance," Veronica said, shrugging. "But tension's still running hot between the Brotherhood and the NCR out there. If either side figured out who I was..." She didn't care to think too hard about it. "I don't know what they'd do," she said at long last. "I just know that it'd be better for everyone if I stayed as far away as possible."

"Well, sure," Cass said, unable to keep a tinge of sarcasm from her voice. "Everyone except you." Beat. "And some of the folks who've taken a shine to you. But hey, greater good and all that, right?"

Veronica allowed for a faint smile. "Jacobstown is the only compromise I can think of right now," she said. "It's not the best idea in the world, but it's definitely not the worst. And it doesn't have to be permanent."

Cass let out a weary sigh, tipping her hat back to rub lightly at her forehead. She let it drop back down as she made a grab for the whiskey on the table, throwing back a couple shot's worth before deciding to say anything else on the matter.

"Maybe I oughta check it out," she mused idly. "Just, y'know... make sure they're not gonna try and serve you up as an entree'."

Veronica grinned. "My hero."

Cass cast a rueful sideward glance in Veronica's direction before rolling her eyes heavenward, throwing back another decent shot of whiskey before setting the bottle back down on the table, taking in the view of the Casino. When her eyes turned back to Veronica, she sighed, looking at the former scribe with a grudging look in her eyes.

"I'm only getting you back 'cause you helped me out with my caravan," Cass said pointedly.

"Oh sure," Veronica said, still grinning ear to ear. "I know. It's not because you adore me or anything. Couldn't stand to see me- what was that? Turned into a charm bracelet?"

Cass arched an eyebrow at her. "Don't press your luck, sweetheart," she warned the former scribe, though she was incapable of keeping herself from smirking. "Think Kette'd let me tag along for the ride up?"

"She probably would," Veronica replied, sobering, "provided you promised to behave yourself."

Cass snorted. "We'll see about that."


	7. Point of Origin

So I don't mean to breeze over the Everyone Knows Veronica's Brotherhood segment, and didn't mean to do it before, so I may end up fleshing that out later on. For the moment, to keep from extending the 'intro' out for too long, I think I'm going to keep this as-is for the time being. I'll revisit it in the future if there's a proper segue I can springboard off of. Until then, uh- I guess, let me know if you're curious enough to see those bits '_';

While this isn't a major divergence from the first version of this 'fic, it's worth noting that I dicked with chronology the first time around and regretted it- so this time around, things are falling in chronological order. Also the timing might be placed differently than it was in the original, just for the sake of making it work a little more seamlessly.

We'll see how it goes. I may end up hating it or start thinking it's dragging too much.

* * *

><p>[ 13 :: Point of Origin ]<p>

* * *

><p>The trip up to Jacobstown had been- kind of an ordeal. At least when it came to actually leaving the Casino. It took upwards to a week to get everything in order, and a few more days to get everyone's schedules in alignment. Raul had made a remark about it coming off as an exercise in herding cats; he nearly laughed outright when Boone asked him if that was some weird foreign word.<p>

As for Veronica, she had expected a larger group than usual to go with her to the Mutie town, but had soon found herself accompanied not only by those she'd already expected to travel with- Cass's grudging promise to behave herself around the town's inhabitants granting her a place in the small crew consisting of Kette, Lily and Raul- but a couple tag-alongs: Boone and Arcade. It had come as no small surprise to have them make the offer to take the journey with her, as after dodging numerous questions as to _why_ Veronica was hellbent on vacating NCR territories, Kette had finally relented and spilled the beans on that Nasty Brotherhood Secret the former scribe had been harboring. Much as Veronica wanted to be irritated with the courier for it- Boone was one of the many people who she'd gone to great pains to keep her allegiance from, considering his own- the results had made her appreciate Kette's 'slip'... to a slight extent, anyway.

"Word is Colonel Moore gave you a pass," Boone had told her, as if to point out how tossed he was on the decision to follow. "Says a lot."

"And what about you?" Veronica asked him. "You giving me a pass?"

He'd just looked at her. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You won't hear this calibre of sentimentality often," Arcade remarked, a subdued smile on his face. "From me or him." His hand raised to brush a couple errant strands of brown hair back behind her ear; if she didn't know any better, she'd swear the gesture had an air of affectionate sympathy- _empathy?_- to it, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. "My advice?" he'd added, then, his voice warming, "is to take it for what it's worth."

Knowing better than to pry any further, Veronica had gone with the quasi-facetious advice- but not without first giving the Follower an unprompted hug, the strength of her embrace forcing him to give a slight grunt in response. Boone had done his best to sneak away while he still had a chance, but soon found himself subjected to much the same, his stoic demeanor relenting- eeever so slightly- for all of a heartbeat to sling his arm around the young woman's shoulders.

She knew better than to believe the offer was made entirely on her behalf, however. Though some of them had managed to keep socialization to a minimum whilst hanging around the Presidential Suite of the Lucky 38, there was a peculiar dedication- a sense of camaraderie- that compelled them to make one last trek together before they went their separate ways. There was a collective understanding that, after becoming accustomed to one anothers' presence, to a sense of direction, they were all bound to feel a little lost once they'd dispersed. And so... she had, in that sense, become the medium through which they could stave that moment off for just a little while longer.

It had been worth it, the trip up to the snowy mountain 'resort' a relatively uneventful one with only a couple stops along the way, their eventual arrival at Jacobstown met with a slightly... chilly reception, though it was to be expected.

The de facto mayor of the town- named Marcus, Kette had informed her, something she'd heard before though it had slipped her mind- as well as the other mutants in the front yard, seemed none too pleased to see a gaggle of humans wandering behind the elderly nightkin.

Wisely, the majority of the group remained outside the tall gates upon realizing how many suspicious stares were being leveled on them from the inhabitants of the small community, leaving Lily to usher Raul and Veronica past the entrance.

"Lily," Marcus had said wearily, looking between the Nightkin, the two she'd brought in with her, and the four humans standing at the gate. "You herd Bighorners, not humans."

"Oh, Marcus, there's no need to be so grumpy," Lily chided him. "They're guests! Come to see off their friends, here."

"Seen her up here with that Courier before," Marcus said, nodding towards the former scribe. "Briefly." Beat. "Never seen the ghoul before."

Lily looked at Marcus absently. "Hmn?"

Silence.

"The ghoul, Lily," Marcus said, gesturing towards Raul. "He got a name?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. This is Raul Tejada."

Marcus nodded to Raul in acknowledgement, turning his attention to Veronica to say, "Don't think I caught your name, either."

"This," Lily said happily, "is Veronica Sant- Hmm. Sant-" Beat. "What was your name again, dear?"

"It's Santangelo," Veronica replied, smiling lopsidedly.

"Ah, yes. Santangelo. Thank you, sweetheart," the elderly Nightkin reached down to ruffle Veronica's hair affectionately, her gesture earning her a whiny noise of protest, "grandma forgets these things sometimes."

"Guess I get top billing, eh?" Raul remarked to Veronica in a stage whisper.

Veronica made a show of being put out as she did her best to smooth back her hair. "Don't get too smug," she told him. "She almost forgot you were there."

Her comment earned her a good-natured jab of the ghoul's elbow against her side, the scribe sticking her tongue out petulantly by way of response. The routine soon dropped once she realized Marcus was staring at her.

"So the human," Marcus said, turning his attention to Lily. "Take it she's housebroken?"

"Marcus!" Lily exclaimed, "that's no way to talk!"

Veronica raised her hand, twiddling her fingers to get Marcus's attention. "I am," she added helpfully. "For the record."

Marcus let out a soft sound- midway between a grunt and a chuckle. Veronica couldn't tell which it was, but the slight hint of a smile eventually clarified things for her. It was a good sign, at least.

"Wanna explain where you're going with all the introductions?" Marcus asked Lily, then, turning his attention towards her.

"Certainly, dear," Lily said, only too happy to answer. "They're both looking for a place to stay, and I thought it'd be wonderful if they made their homes here, in Jacobstown."

"Really." Marcus looked towards Veronica again, not quite buying what he was hearing. "You offered, or they asked?"

"Raul asked," Lily informed him. "Such a lovely young man..."

"_Lovely_," Veronica echoed under her breath, grinning broadly.

"Yeah," Raul said, deadpan, "'lovely' pretty much covers it. Add a dash of 'marvelous' and that's me in a nutshell."

"Raul offered to help maintain all our equipment," Lily added, failing to notice the peanut gallery.

Marcus, however, had, but was doing a good job of hiding his own amusement. "And the human?" he asked the Nightkin, his eyes having remained on the former scribe throughout the brief interruption.

It was daunting, on many levels, to be so thoroughly scrutinized by someone twice her size.

"Her name is _Veronica_, dear," Lily said chidingly. "I offered her a place here. She said she'd be happy to help with things, too, things like- ah... what was it-?"

The look Marcus leveled on Veronica became more intent as Lily attempted to remember what the scribe actually specialized in, his attention placed solely on her expression, her reactions.

"And this is something you want?" he asked her plainly.

"I, ah..." Veronica hesitated, uncertain of what exactly he was looking to hear. In the end, that seemed to be the best thing she could go with. "I'm not sure what you expect me to say. It's not ideal? ...I might have picked somewhere else to go, but I don't have a lot of options right now?"

"A stray, then," Marcus said. "Honest, though. That's good." Beat. "Anything else I should know about you?"

Wrinkling her nose at being called a 'stray,' Veronica nonetheless eased at his response- that was, until the question was asked. "I don't know," she said, looking back to Lily for help. "Is there?"

"It's best you tell him yourself, sweetheart," Lily advised her.

"Tell him what, though?" she asked, feeling slightly foolish for having to ask.

"Who you are."

_Oh. Is that all._

"Where you come from," Marcus elaborated.

Try as she might to keep her gaze on his, she turned it down towards the ground, that slight stab of guilt that she'd felt upon considering Lily's offer returning for a moment to humble her. While it only made sense that he'd ask in the first place, Veronica had hoped, somewhat naively, that the question wouldn't arise until much later. And tempted though she was to come back with _uh... California?_ she knew it would have been a patently bad idea.

"The, ah... I used to be a part of the Brotherhood," she said eventually, raising her eyes to meet Marcus's own, though she kept her head partly bowed.

"Oh!" Lily chimed in. "That's right! Goodness, how could I forget a thing like that? You're good with electronics, aren't you?" She patted the scribe on the shoulder, saying, "She's agreed to help Raul with repairs, you know."

"And I will," Veronica said tentatively, "assuming I'll be allowed to stay, that is," her head raising to meet Marcus's gaze fully.

"Oh, don't you worry, honey," Lily said, patting the scribe's shoulder a little more roughly than she'd intended. "As soon as he gets to know you, I'm sure everything will be right as rain."

"We'll see," Marcus said, his gaze softening slightly. "Come with me," he said to Veronica, motioning for her to follow him as he began to turn, starting off in the direction of the bungalows once she'd reluctantly fallen in step.

"Now you be nice, Marcus!" Lily instructed him. "Veronica's a sweet girl."

"Are you?" Marcus said once they were out of earshot.

The faintest hints of an amused smile let Veronica relax slightly, the subdued expression the mutant wore returned with a less halting smile of her own.

"I'm as sweet as Raul is lovely?" Veronica replied, hands spread as she gave a slight shrug.

He chuckled. Bypassing the bungalows to walk the petimeter as they talked, Marcus kept his pace slow so she could keep up without jogging. The talk had gone smoothly for the most part, the scribe deciding to speak as frankly as she could about herself and her desperation to find a place she could potentitally call home. Yes, she'd admitted, she was raised with all the usual prejudices the Brotherhood had done a good job of instilling, and yes, there would _definitely_ be times she'd say something out of turn- "with me," she said, "it's kind of a given," all but reiterating what she'd told Colonel Moore- but her hope was to be of some help.

"To someone," she said, shrugging a bit listlessly. "Anyone, really. Doesn't matter who anymore."

It was a moment of honesty that Marcus could appreciate.

From there, the conversation had gone on what Veronica thought was a tangential anecdote, though she soon discovered it's purpose.

"I knew a member of the Brotherhood," he began, ignoring her look of slight confusion. "Nearly killed each other when we met."

"Nearly?"

"Whole thing ended in a stalemate. Only thing left to do was talk." When she had nothing to add, Marcus continued with, "Becoming friends was slow-going, but it happened. Didn't change who he was, just what he believed."

"Was he a Scribe or a Paladin?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Ideology's the same." Beat. "He got over it." He looked at her pointedly. "Can you?"

"I..." Veronica allowed for a wan smile, saying, "I'll be honest... it took a while to get used to having Lily around. I mean, I'm sure you're already aware that as a whole, the Brotherhood doesn't see mutants the same way they used to-"

"-but."

"But... that doesn't mean they take kindly to them. They don't take kindly to anyone, really, but mutants... that's a special kind of dislike, there. The founder-"

"Maxson," Marcus said. "I know. Heard all about it."

"About Mariposa?"

"Yeah. About slaughtering the mutants there. About the Exodus..." Marcus watched her quietly for a moment before saying, in what had seemed like another tangent, "Hell of a thing, having the same point of origin."

"Huh." She smiled absently, saying, "I guess we do, don't we? Hadn't really thought of it that way."

"Folks here certainly have," he said. "They remember what your tribe did to them, what they're capable of." For emphasis, he added, "And so do I."

She shrank away from the look he gave her, nearly falling behind as they circled around the large resort hotel. "To be honest...? You get used to that kind of contempt after a while."

"This is different."

"Different how?"

Marcus turned his eyes to the snow-covered ground ahead of them, saying, "The Brotherhood had a key role in forcing the Master's army to move east. Hunted the stragglers down like animals. You'd be taking a risk that one of those stragglers might do the same to you."

"Oh..."

"Right." Beat. "Point is, some of the Nightkin aren't in the best shape. Don't have the best control. Until they trust you, safety isn't a guarantee. Might take a while before that happens."

Veronica let out a rueful chuckle. "Hell," she said, "it's still better than some of the other deals I've been handed."

Marcus glanced at her, one thick eyebrow raised. "Long story?"

She smiled. "Yeah."

He returned her smile with a subtle one of his own. "Some other time, then."


	8. A Sign of Good Faith

Don't be alarmed, you're still reading the same story. It's going to seem like I'm veering completely off-course, but I assure you, I'm not. ...I needed to introduce this at some point or I wasn't going to get the chance to :D SO ANWYAY, we'll go back to Story A soon here.

in this segment, OOOO PLOTBITS foreshadowing _oooooo_ - It'll all tie in to the main story eventually, I swear. Also, I've made assumptions about a lot of the FO3 NPCs in terms of them fixing their own problems without the LW's help, so keep that in mind if you see something and say 'hey wait a minute-'

Lastly, since SOME of Tactics has been considered canon, I'm taking rudimentary world notes from it to fill in the blanks on the Midwest, but I'm being careful to nix the bits that don't make sense.

* * *

><p>[ 14 :: A Sign of Good Faith (Or Outright Stupidity) ]<p>

* * *

><p>Out in the Capital Wasteland, things had more or less been running smoothly. There were still a host of problems to consider- there was no core governing body in the region, still, though the Brotherhood had done their best to suit that role- but the access to clean water and the absence of the Enclave allowed things to run on a stable baseline. Stable enough, anyway.<p>

There had been changes, of course... four years worth of them since Project Purity had been brought back online, since Lyons' Pride had gone in to neutralize Adams Air Force Base.

Four years since the woefully unreliable space cadet the founder of Project Purity had spawned turned tail and ran from the area, leaving behind more loose ends and burnt bridges than should have been possible for any one human being. Granted, there was something to be said for an equally unwarranted string of successes, but that was besides the point.

There were, after all, other matters that made that particular string of annoyances seem paltry by comparison. First and foremost: the supermutant presence in the downtown areas, inhabiting places that could very easily become stable, productive communities.

Ever since the Citadel had taken an even more open-arms approach to some of the main players in the region, working more closely with locals they deemed to be trustworthy- their willingness to continue running the water caravans with the help of Rivet City, in turn, earning greater trust from the locals- expansion was slowly becoming more possible. They still held to the edicts of the past- acquiring and studying technology- but that had become even more secondary than it was before. Now that the Brotherhood had stepped into the role of what passed for a governing body, their responsibility to the region had grown exponentially. Thus, plans had been already been drafted by some of the more ambitious members of the Brotherhood to make way for the aforementioned communities, largely thanks to Jameson's bright idea that supplying safety, refuge and stable provisions would lead to greater numbers within the organization's ranks. With the help of local mercenary groups- Reilly's Rangers among them, the mercs having agreed to help the Brotherhood for a regular stipend- it didn't seem as though it would be that big an issue. And really, it _was_ a rather good idea, but the moment scouts had been sent out to see if it was even possible, they had returned with several hair-raising stories.

The mutants were _different,_ they said. When asked to qualify those statements, they couldn't; it was something about their behaviour that no one could quite pin down. They seemed better coordinated, less impulsive, even going so far as to ignore scouts outright if they had other tasks in mind. And that, really, was the other thing; the mutants were moving with purpose, in a way no one had seen before, though not a single scout could hazard a guess as to what they were doing. Even those that remained of the Talon Company- splinter groups that had survived the Brotherhood-backed assaults on Fort Bannister- seemed mystified, enough that they'd held back on outright attacks to simply observe, to figure out the angle the brutes were playing at. If indeed, there was an angle being played at all.

Many said that after lengthy attempts to follow the mutants to wherever they were going always ended the same: in shock attacks on raiders, on travelers, the same as it always had been. The only difference was that Evergreen Mills appeared to be the staging area for some particularly vicious assaults, enough so that the locale was all but depleted of raider activity. Paradise Falls, it was said, was coming under similar fire.

For how deliberate it all seemed, it had ultimately come across as hopelessly random.

It wasn't long after those reports came in that scouts had sighted the massive brutes looking genuinely diseased. Their already greenish hides were beginning to show signs of festering lesions, some worse than others. At that point, greater precautions were taken. If the creatures were harboring some form of illness, exposing recruits and experienced Knights to any pathogens might encourage it to jump species; no one was to engage a supermutant unless they were covered head to foot in protective gear. In the case of the Pride, there were frequent suggestions to making use of the power armor left behind by the Enclave, if only for the sake of doubling their potential resistance.

Sarah hadn't caved on that suggestion, finding the idea a bit repugnant, if not premature. No one knew if, as some of the scribes suggested, the pathogen even had the capacity to become zoonotic... or if it even _was_ a pathogen in the first place.

Tensions ran high in the Citadel as they continued- with the help of some outsiders- to try and figure out what, exactly, was causing the slow degradation and behavioural changes in their long-time enemies, but at the Elder's suggestion, the Brotherhood adopted a wait-and-see policy on them. They still shot and killed those they came across- indeed, all of the scouts were advised to keep firing rounds into fallen mutants until the bodies had been utterly vaporized, if only for the sake of preventing the spread of the disease until more could be learned about it- and samples of supermutant blood were still retrieved for further study, but it was too soon to know for sure what could be done about it. Or, more importantly, if anything _should_ be done.

There was, after all, a chance that the disease was a _favorable_ development, not a threatening one. Still, better to not take any chances. That was why, upon receiving a note on her terminal from the Elder concerning a questionable new assignment involving, of all people, the Midwestern Brotherhood, Sarah had taken the issue up with the man himself. And by the look he got when she'd approached him, he'd been expecting her to do just that. Aggravatingly, he'd told her to wait, that he'd been planning on convening a meeting about the matter and that, as much as he would have liked to tell her everything right then and there, there were certain preparations to be made.

Preparations. Unnecessary delays. Peculiar comm messages... It was one of the few times Sarah had to wonder if the man was beginning to show signs of impending senility.

Nonetheless, she did as instructed, waiting a couple hours before joining him in his quarters- another oddity. Even stranger was the presence of Scribe Rothchild and Scribe Jameson; while the first wasn't all that strange, necessarily, the two of them together in conjunction with the obtuse message she'd been given... it didn't sit particularly well with her.

"Elder," she said, nudging the door shut behind her as she regarded the two scribes with a brief glance.

Rothchild and Jameson both afforded her a nod of greeting, neither seeming all that surprised by the Sentinel's frosty disposition; apparently, they were already abreast of the situation, enough to be expecting some irritation.

"Yes, my dear?" the Elder replied simply, the kindly parental epithet making the Sentinel bristle slightly.

As rankling as it was, however, it was a tell; she could only surmise that her father's cool approach to her ire had to do with confidence in his decision.

Nonetheless, Sarah's expression darkened. "Would you mind telling me why I'm being sent on a suicide mission?"

Elder Lyons watched her calmly for a time before he said, "What makes you think this is a suicide mission?"

"What makes you think it isn't?" Sarah fired back at him. "We haven't dealt with the Midwestern Brotherhood in well over-" She paused, looking to Jameson to fill in the blank.

"-save for a some unplanned encounters?" Jameson shrugged. "A few intercepted messages?" She paused to consider. "We haven't had any direct contact in... well over a decade? Maybe longer?"

"-So let's say it's been at least twenty years," Sarah said, turning her attention back to the Elder. "All the reports we've heard from those territories describe them as extremely hostile, _especially_ when it comes to their former allies."

"Those could be rumors," Jameson interjected. Despite the look she got from Sarah, she opted to continue, saying, "Those reports _did_ come from the Lost Hills bunker..."

"It doesn't matter," Sarah pointed out to the scribe, irritable. "Those rumors could have been made a reality at this point. We haven't had the resources to send out proper reconnaissance- we're completely in the dark. Nothing about them is certain anymore." She shook her head. "So yeah," she said, "I'd say sending me to their main base of operations for a friendly chat is tipping the scales towards 'suicidal.'"

"Your concern is understandable," Elder Lyons said, "and indeed, it'd be best to keep those concerns in mind when you meet with them, but... When we sent inquiry as to our intent, the communiques were given a favorable response. Favorable enough that it's been decided that, in spite of the risks, making contact would be in our best interest."

"What inquiries?" Sarah asked. "This is the first time I've heard about any attempts to communicate with them."

"It concerns broadcasts we'd intercepted from the Enclave's satellite relays," Rothchild told Sarah. "Aside from the uplinks they'd established to their weapons platform and secondary base of operation, we came across messages being sent to a tertiary location. Namely, a facility that just happens to be sitting in the heart of the Midwestern Brotherhood's former stomping grounds."

Sarah arched her eyebrows. "Chicago?"

Rothchild suppressed a smile at the Sentinel's obvious irritation with having to ask so many questions.

Jameson nodded. "They've had trouble keeping tabs on it in recent times. The Cheyenne Mountain facility they occupied is a long ways away, and the trials they've faced in keeping it secured... They didn't go into much detail, but from what I can tell, they've come up against an enemy that has taken up the bulk of their attention; an army with considerable strength that calls itself 'Legion.'"

Sarah furrowed her brow. "Just 'Legion'?"

Jameson spread her hands. "Like I said, they didn't go into detail. The message was delivered in morse code."

"Which," Rothchild interjected, "as you know-"

"-means they're in trouble," Sarah finished for him. "I'm aware of the protocols," she added testily, her aside earning her a light shrug from the Head Scribe.

"And," Jameson moved on, looking between the two with an arched eyebrow, "that all messages from them are bound to be succinct."

"They've agreed to give us safe passage through Chicago to finish what we started here," Elder Lyons told the Sentinel calmly, upon being given the opportunity to speak up. "Provided we offer them some support in their campaign against this so-called 'Legion.' "

"What kind of support?"

"Ammunition, weaponry... Things of that nature. Assuming, of course, that this negotiation goes as planned."

Silence. The Sentinel stewed over what she was being told for a time, her eyes turned to the floor as if she expected it to offer her some new, brilliant insight. Apparently finding none, she returned her attention to the Elder.

"Are you sure an alliance with the Midwest is a good idea?" Sarah asked, tentative. "Even discounting the propaganda put out by the West, what's known about their codes of conduct, their recruiting methods... Let's just say they all seem highly questionable." Beat. "And that's putting it lightly."

"It is," Elder Lyons replied, "if our sources are to be believed. And yet, we've seen what happens when the Enclave is given adequate breathing room. It didn't take them long to place down roots once they'd reached the eastern territories; chances are, they will again if we fail to act on what we've learned."

"Even if it turns out to be a dead end," Jameson said, "I think I speak for everyone when I say that I'd rather be sure their major outposts have been abandoned, rather than just assume."

"And what if the Midwesterners are working alongside the Enclave?" Sarah asked. "What if they're providing shelter, even sanctuary to the survivors that managed to escape the assault on Raven Rock? ...This _could_ be an ambush."

"It doesn't seem all that likely," Rothchild said. "The Enclave tends to be rather picky when it comes to who they align themselves with. And those 'codes of conduct' you mention are ones that would definitely rub the remnants of Eden's regime the wrong way."

"Besides," the Elder added, "if they _are_ allied with the Enclave, it'd be best if we found out about it as quickly as possible."

Sarah paused, considerate, her lips tensed into a thin line. "Regardless of all that," she said, "you still haven't answered my initial question."

"And which question was that?"

Sarah looked at the Elder wearily. "Why is it so important that I tag along for the ride?" she said, attempting to reign in her temper. "I'm not a negotiator, I'm a groundpounder. The best I can do in a situation like that is look as intimidating as possible. So- why me? And why break up the Pride when there's clearly something going on with the mutant populations?"

Elder Lyons merely smiled. "Because you, my dear daughter," he said, affecting his 'dad' tone to make it clear, however subtly, that his mind was made up, "are needed on this mission for one simple, but very important reason..." he paused, offering her a slightly sympathetic smile as he said, "You're a sign of good faith."

"Regardless of our tenuous relationship with the Midwest," Jameson said, "they know that killing an Elder's daughter- especially one that's achieved such a high standing- would be a grievous error on their part. They'll be more apt to remain civil if you're present, see the risk we were willing to take as a sign of our good intentions."

"Or our outright stupidity," Sarah muttered.

Jameson smiled wanly, affording Sarah a faint, "Or that."

"They're taking a risk, too, remember," the Elder pointed out. "But they stand to gain more from peaceful relations than they do from continued hostilities... and so do we." He paused, watching Sarah carefully for a time, gaging her decidedly poor reaction. "Is there anything else you'd like to know before we begin making preparations for your departure?"

"There is." Sarah looked at Jameson sidelong, a question that had been nagging at her throughout the entire exchange springing to the forefront. "And I mean no offense by asking," she said, incredulous in spite of her words' sincerity, "but why are you here, exactly? There's nothing about this meeting you couldn't record later, nevermind that you could have given the Elder a report on the Midwesterners and been done with it. So what are you-"

"-She has good reason to be present," Lyons interrupted, turning his attention to Jameson as if to prompt her.

"I've- been asked to go with you," Jameson said, taking the Sentinel's question gracefully; however rankling it was in Rothchild's presence, she seemed to understand the younger woman's reason for asking. "I'll be taking a diplomatic role in the proceedings... primarily as an advisor," she clarified, then, carefully choosing her words.

It made Sarah suspicious. "Advisory?" she said, eyebrow raised. "So wait- are _you_ the negotiator, or-?"

The Elder and Jameson exchanged a look. "More of an attache," Elder Lyons said for her. "_Your_ attache, specifically."

Sarah eyed her father, brow furrowed, expression telling her bemusement. "Excuse me?"

"She'll have more than enough time to explain it to you once we get things settled," Lyons replied obtusely. "Regardless, I do want you to know that I am deeply aware of the dangers this situation poses, but if I didn't trust that you could handle yourself accordingly, I wouldn't be sending you in. And as for the threat the mutants pose... as you've seen, they've been... passive, lately. The scouts are doing all they can to gather information, but at the present time, that's the best we can do."

"Has any headway been made on identifying what's wrong with them?" Sarah asked, curious.

"One of the regional doctors," Rothchild said, "Dr. Preston, I believe his name is? He relayed a message to us this morning stating that he was fairly certain the disease would only affect those individuals exposed to the Forced Evolutionary Virus. Specifically the local flavor of it."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "There's a difference?"

"To him, yes," Rothchild said, nodding. "He ran a comparison between the local strain and what we had on file from the early days of the Master's Army; apparently, there are some notable differences, though he didn't do a particularly good job of explaining what those were." He shook his head. "I'm sure the few scribes we have on hand who understand the ins and outs of 'modern medicine' have a better handle on it than I do."

"And thank goodness for that," Jameson remarked wryly, the comment earning her a withering look from the Head Scribe.

Though curious, Sarah didn't ask what it was about.

"You'll have time to follow their progress," Elder Lyons said, clearly amused by the exchange, saying nothing of the contempt in the Head Scribe's expression. "From what I hear, there are some significant repairs and modifications that need to be made to our vertibirds if they're to make it to Colorado in one piece."

Sarah let out a soft chuckle. "If that's the case," she said, "they can take all the time they need."

"According to their calculations," the Elder said, "it could take up to a month, but they seem confident that they can get it up to code within the span of a couple weeks."

"And in the meantime?" Sarah asked, eyebrow raised.

"In the meantime," the Elder replied, "you and Jameson will be spending time going over negotiation strategies... on top of some of your regular duties, of course."

"Some?"

"While I trust your ability to handle yourself in a tricky situation, as I said," Lyons reiterated, affording his daughter another easy smile, "you could stand to have some coaching on the art of diplomacy- and I can think of no better tutor than Scribe Jameson to take up that task." Beat. "It'll take time, of course... and since your team is perfectly capable of functioning on their own with little supervision, I've rearranged some of the duty rosters in order to give you just that. And more, if it's necessary."

"The art of diplomacy," Sarah repeated, underwhelmed. "Are you serious?"

"Quite." The Elder canted his head slightly, eyebrows raised. "Is that all?"

The look Sarah leveled on her father was just short of baleful, and that- that, it could be certain, was only thanks to the Sentinel's impressive show of restraint. She didn't like the plan in the least, didn't appreciate it being foisted on her, but she wasn't about to shirk her responsibilities. Though being the Elder's daughter was an important factor in the order she was being given, invoking any form of family privilege was something she was deeply opposed to.

She couldn't help but wonder, however, if her staunch unwillingness to call upon her father for any favors wouldn't, in this instance, be her undoing.

Even so, there was only response to be made: "Yes, sir."


	9. Nice Try

See? I'm not a liar~ Keene is, in fact, in this story. :V And so is ED-E o/'

Another note: after running through numerous Mexican slang sites, I landed on a suitable pet name but have to put up this disclaimer: in Argentinian slang, the term is pretty raunchy (someone should tell me if there's some other colloquialisms i'm missing that could prove problematic ;3).

Also I'm jumping around a little in chronology again, but in a more limited fashion. As with before, I swear to you I'm not glossing over things, they will be touched on later. But if it doesn't work, let me know so I can fix it in later updates. If it does, then hooray. I like hearing about that, too.

* * *

><p>[ 15 :: Nice Try ]<p>

* * *

><p>Everything was set. Given the go-ahead to choose two members of the Pride to go alongside her, Sarah had done her best to prepare the entire squad for the upcoming away mission. She'd made it a point to refrain from telling any of them who was going and who was staying until the last minute- a calculated decision made necessary by some... disagreements between the top two candidates- the plans for each group laid out for every member. Those staying behind would continue to carry out their orders to defend the DC ruins against the dwindling mutant population where needed, as had been expected. Those that were going were expected to memorize every contingency plan Sarah could think of, the nature of the situation they were going into still too much of an unknown to leave out any point of discussion. They had to be prepared for damn near anything.<p>

As it was, even if the negotiations went well, the turmoil in the Midwest made it necessary to stay on their toes. After all, getting shot out of the sky- or being engaged in a skirmish on land- wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. And though she'd nearly drove her team to exhaustion with the sheer number of drills she'd put them through, in the end, she was certain it'd be worth it.

It would have gone much more smoothly, if not for the orders from her father to 'go over some diplomacy lessons' with Jameson, the only scribe that would be joining them. On those few occasions Jameson had actually managed to catch up to Sarah for said 'lessons,' it was obvious that the worst part of the prep time would be making the Elder's daughter actually give a damn about negotiating tactics- and once they finally sat down, the inherent challenges made themselves even more apparent. Sitting across from Jameson in the conference room, her feet kicked up on the semi-circle table, her power armor set aside in favor of plainclothes for the little 'meeting,' Sarah was the very picture of disinterest.

"It'll be good practice," Jameson said, attempting to retain the underwhelmed Sentinel's attention, "If you ever take your father's place-"

"That," Sarah interrupted, "will never happen. If someone came up to me and told me I had only two ways I could spend the rest of my life, as either a politician or a quadriplegic, I'd go with quadriplegic every time."

Jameson chuckled. "You don't mean that."

"Oh yes I do."

"Alright, alright," the scribe sighed, "so maybe you do-"

Sarah gave Jameson an incredulous look. "-Maybe?"

"-But for right now," Jameson continued, undeterred, "it's important that we get you up to speed on all the topics we need to discuss- all the arguments that need to be made in case they refuse our requests. I'll still be present to back you up... in fact, all you need to do is lead the conversation, at which point I can pick up most of the slack- but we need to make it seem like, ah... well." The older woman afforded Sarah a wry smile. "Like you actually care about diplomacy."

"It'll be a tough sell," Sarah said, returning the scribe's smile. "But if it's really necessary-"

"-it is."

Sarah sighed, shifting her feet off of the desk and letting the front legs of her chair hit the ground with a dull thud.

Resting either of her elbows on the table and leaning forward to look at the scribe pointedly, she said, "You're positive that you can't do all the talking?"

"If I did, they might take it as a sign that your position isn't quite what it should be," Jameson reminded her. "You'll be the highest ranking Paladin present- that means you have to be the one to retain control of the talking points."

Rubbing at her face with open palms, Sarah groaned irritably. "God... they threw away so many other 'sacred codes of conduct,'" she complained wearily, "you'd _think_ they'd get rid of all the nonsensical bureaucracy."

Jameson pursed her lips. "Maybe they have. But they're still militaristic. Which means you-"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm the headliner." Sarah raised her head, clasping her hands together so she could rest her chin against them. "Alright," she sighed. "You made your point. I give."

"Talking points first, then?"

Sarah waved her hand dismissively. "Whatever," she said. "Let's just get it over with."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Elsewhere, lessons on diplomacy could have come as a genuine help. A little armchair psychiatry couldn't have hurt, either.<p>

For all the good things that had come of Veronica's stay in Jacobstown, there were, of course, some pitfalls to be expected. Marcus had warned her that she'd have trouble winning everyone over, which was hardly a surprise- but in many ways, she'd underestimated the difficulty she'd have with the Nightkin. Keene, for all his intelligence, was still an incredibly unstable creature, his disdain for her broadcast in his every glance, his every gesture. The sway he held over the others of his kind- save Lily- made them just as prone to show their contempt for her, either by ignoring her or, as time passed, staring silently at her. Originally, she thought it'd been a rather silly form of retaliation, though she'd grudgingly admitted to Raul that it was starting to get a little intimidating.

Marcus had told her that it had taken a great deal of time for Keene to adjust to the presence of other humans that had lived in Jacobstown before. Doctor Henry- a man whose past loyalties had eventually compelled him to leave before she'd arrived to 'take his place' as the only human present- had made it easier for the Nightkin on account of his propensity to keep his eyes on his research.

"And when he wasn't working," Marcus told her, "he knew to keep his head down."

He'd assured her she'd get used to it, but it wasn't something the former scribe was all that acclimated to. Regardless, she did her best- though mistakes were bound to happen. It didn't help that Kette had specifically antagonized Keene during her dealings with him.

"He got in my face the moment I walked in the damn door," Kette had said to her. "Had a few colorful things to say about 'my kind,' then went on some tirade about how much he hated it when self-righteous meatbags like me stared at him. So... I felt obligated to stare at him. Wouldn't you?"

Veronica hadn't answered, though she wished she'd known at the time that, thanks to that, she had apparently inherited a heap load of guilt by association, and it was starting to cause legitimate problems. Those couple times she'd accidentally glanced in Keene's direction, he'd barked at her to mind her own business, to keep moving, had expressed his 'hope' that she wasn't 'that hateful bitch's' eyes and ears. She didn't need to guess to whom he was referring; as it was, That Hateful Bitch would be getting an earful from her the next time they crossed paths. So far as Veronica was concerned, Kette was one-hundred-percent responsible for the uncomfortable dynamic she had to deal with presently.

Nonetheless, she'd done her best to diffuse the situations as they'd presented themselves- though going with humor, she found, was a bad angle to take, as shielding her eyes in a variety of ludicrous ways hadn't gone over well- but even her attempts to apologize were met with suspicion. If anything, apologies only made it worse. Frustrated, she opted for a cheeky approach on the morning after she'd placed the call to the East Coast Brotherhood, donning a pair of impossibly dark sunglasses to keep her gaze hidden. Keene hadn't been amused once he'd seen her enter the main lodge; he closed the distance between them and took a firm hold of her arm, plucking the sunglasses off her face and casually poking out both lenses.

He handed them back to her, grunting out a contemptuous "Nice try," waiting for her to take the ruined eyewear back before he'd turned to join the others.

"Thanks," she deadpanned once he was out of earshot, quirking her lip as she looked down at the now-defunct sunglasses.

Again, she reminded herself, snags were part of the deal. But the ramp-up of tensions between her and Keene... was not helping her through her rather unique adjustment period.

And to think, the trip up, the first few days, even the first couple weeks- save one run-in in particular with the surly Nightkin- had gone so well.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>On her first night in the mutant community, Veronica had, in spite of Marcus's urging to steer clear of Keene, managed to run straight into him. She soon discovered why the warnings had been necessary, as indeed, the meeting had little in the way of good tidings.<p>

It had occurred when she and Raul were taking a short tour around the lodge as the people who'd traveled up to the secluded mountain community with them were settling into the vacated bungalows. The old ghoul reasoned that it wouldn't hurt to get a feel for the place, and she was inclined to agree. On their way out the door after a brief chat and an otherwise uneventful stroll through the building, however, they'd been stopped short by one of the Nightkin, his hand catching Veronica's upper arm in a vice grip, at which point... he sniffed her. Leaning forward, the tilt of his head and the flaring of his nostrils made it obvious what his intent was in the first place, and the experience was... novel, to put it mildly.

"You're with her," he'd announced, releasing the former scribe once he'd given her a thorough olfactory once-over.

Rubbing her arm, already bristling, Veronica did her best to keep her ire to herself; some, however, coming in the form of a sarcastic, "Nice to meet you, too," did manage to slip out.

"Why are you here?" he asked her, again taking a brief sniff at the air around her, the move adding to her bemusement- and to some degree, her ire.

"Don't let the robes fool you," Veronica retorted, audibly underwhelmed, her eyebrows raised. "Deep, existential questions aren't my strong suit."

The brute canted his head slightly, curious, thick brows furrowed as he regarded her quietly. "Well said," he afforded her. "Your name?"

"Veronica," the former scribe said, easing slightly. "You?"

"Keene."

..._Shit_. One night in and already she sucked at following instructions.

"Eyes elsewhere, human," he growled at her, making her realize she'd taken to staring somewhat blankly at his face.

Blinking, she averted her gaze slowly, incredulous. "Can I ask why?" she said, trying to find something _other_ than him to focus on.

"No," he sneered, "but you can ask your friend. _She_ knows."

Certainly, Keene had plenty to say about the subject of Kette. And for good reason, the scribe would later afford him. In spite of his 'request' for the courier to show him some respect, he had been granted no such thing. At the time, Veronica had no idea this was the case, or _why_ it was such a Big Issue, but she had listened to him all the same to the short-lived, irritable rantings, nodding at his assertions in an attempt to appear understanding. But what he had to say about _her_ had, to her mind, set the precedent for their interactions in the future.

In a tone that made it seem like he was speaking candidly, he said, "I'll do my best not to hurt you," that deep, animal growl of a voice making the words all the more threatening, "but you don't make it easy."

"You haven't even gotten to know me yet," Veronica said, tone remaining flippant in spite of her incredulity.

Keene's already pulled-back lips raised slightly in a pronounced snarl, eyes narrowing. "You don't fit," he said, as if that were all the explanation he needed to give. "I don't like it."

"Makes two of us," Veronica replied, squinting back at him. "Look, how about you just give me a chance to prove I'm not all that bad before you-"

"I just did."

Simple as that. He'd turned to walk away from her then, the scribe's confusion evident on her face. She'd missed something vital, it seemed, and his expression- unable to be placed, more unreadable than she was used to from mutants- had only compounded her bemusement.

"That could've gone better," she'd said under her breath, startled by Raul's voice coming from behind her.

"Real sharp, Ace," the old ghoul observed with a soft chuckle.

"Thanks," Veronica muttered sarcastically, shooting Raul an irritated glance.

"Always good to see those amazing powers of observation in action."

"Hold on," she deadpanned, "I'm getting a cramp from not laughing."

"You know what helps with that?"

"What?"

Raul offered her a subtle grin. "Couple'a beers and a good cigar."

On that, they agreed. But, "I'll pass on the cigar."

"More for the rest of us, then," Raul said with a shrug. "See you at the bungalows, _gatita_. Don't be long."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p><em>Gatita<em>. From then on out, it had become the old ghoul's preferred pet name for her.

It hadn't started up in earnest until the men and women that had followed the two up to Jacobstown had departed, during those times where they'd started spending more time together. And then there was the 'third wheel,' as she called it: the not-so-little but little-in-spirit eyebot. Kette had given ED-E to her as a parting gift, alongside a slick new set of heavy-duty leather armor and a couple nice dresses. All of it had come as a complete surprise to the scribe, Kette's reliably stingy take on gifts of any kind making the generous offer quite touching. Granted, it was little more than a white noise generator on most days, but with Raul's help, she had managed to update its radio- making it two-way as opposed to one- and lend it a bit more functionality than it had before. She had other projects in mind for it, of course- even if her suggestion of using its voice module to make it 'more chatty' had earned her a dubious look from the old ghoul- but after watching Raul work, she'd alighted upon several ideas.

Not all of them were related to the Enclave's prototype eyebot, either. Seeing the ghoul put his expertise to work, she began to realize just how much the two of them could accomplish within the community.

As it stood, she had been more than capable of making small repairs on her equipment, but it had never been her strongest suit. Taking a moment to jot down notes on how to design a better generator, retrofit old terminals with higher-functioning parts to make them run more smoothly or increase the capacity of energy weapons had been her forte' for the most part, though a great deal of the notes she'd taken on improving basic infrastructure had been more or less ignored in the ranks of the Brotherhood. In Jacobstown, those ideas found a function, and with the help of Raul- sometimes Calamity, provided the other ghoul wasn't busy improving upon the work her old boss had left her with- she found that some of them could actually be executed. The only thing that had stopped her up was explaining some of the schematics to the old ghoul, citing the Brotherhood's edicts as the reason for her reluctance.

"You gotta stop worrying so much, _gatita_," he'd told her. "I can bet the Brotherhood's not thinkin' about you near as much as you're thinkin' about them."

Raul had refused to tell her what that word translated to in English once he'd figured out how much _not_ telling her actually bothered her. When she'd finally nagged at him to tell her, he'd told her in no uncertain terms that until she got over her paranoia about letting out a few 'state secrets,' he'd keep the pet name's meaning to himself, leaving her to dwell on whether or not he was calling her something lewd or just plain mean.

She'd relented after a couple weeks of that treatment, giving him a few of what she considered to be the 'simpler,' inoffensive-to-the-Brotherhood pointers, things he could have potentially picked up on his own. Granted, she didn't tell him that, but that was neither here nor there. Regardless of that, the knowledge seemed useful, relevant, the pointers she gave him centered around the various uses of spent energy weapon ammo, some of which could double as battery power for other devices if modified properly, though it came with several necessary warnings about what might happen if it was done _im_properly.

"First few times you try?" Veronica told him, "make sure you let me know what you're up to. I don't wanna be responsible for you losing an arm. Or half your torso."

He'd agreed and, true to his word, he'd told her the standard translation of her new nickname, but only once the tutorial had concluded and they were both busied with clean-up.

Kitten. _Little cat_, if they were being technical, but 'kitten' was the word he'd stuck with. Naturally, she had to ask him _why_ he'd gone with that as a favored pet name.

"Watching you," he'd explained, "it's like watching an overgrown kitten. You learn fast, but every once in a while, it's like you forget how your legs work."

He'd meant it metaphorically, of course. But it fit, in its way, even if she hadn't known how to take it at first. She knew he meant no insult by it and had taken it for what it was- a term of endearment- but its honesty had lent her pause. She'd asked him to elaborate on what exactly he'd meant by that, and even though she knew he could see how tentative the query had been, he offered an answer.

"You test all the limits, sometimes on purpose, but mostly 'cause you don't know any better... pick fights with things that're five times your size thinkin' you'll win out in the end, and you always seem real surprised when play-time turns ugly." He shrugged. "It's not a bad thing," he assured her. "Hell, it's why I like you."

_Sounds about right,_ had been all she could think at the time. "I take it you've actually seen a few kittens before," she said, then, only too happy to change the subject for the time being.

"Plenty," he said, affording her the out. "Before the war, my sister was feeding a couple strays off our back porch. One've 'em snuck into the house one night an' went straight to her room to have her kittens. Couldn't move any of 'em on account'a the mother, an' Rafaela wasn't about to be told they couldn't stay- not by me, not by our father, not by nobody. So... they stayed."

"How many?"

"Six." He shook his head. "Crazy, all of 'em..."

_Great_, she thought. _So aimless, uncoordinated __**and**__ crazy. What a fine reputation I have._

Veronica grinned, regardless of the knee-jerk reaction. "Guess I'm surprised you remember them that well. It's been so long since there've been any cats around..."

His only reply- save to say that he doubted the animals had vanished completely- had been a knowing, albeit oddly somber smile. Though she'd asked what the look was about, he'd deflected the question with ease. As to whether or not he'd ever explain-

"Maybe some other time," he'd told her.

That 'some other time' would take a while to surface. Curious as the former scribe was about the ghoul's history- he'd seen more in his lifetime than any of the others she'd come to know throughout her journeys, more than the Brotherhood as a whole- she didn't press him for answers when he showed that sort of reluctance. He had occasionally afforded her some anecdotes, but his personal history was left as a blank slate. On that, she was more than happy to be patient with him; however tactless she could be, there was something to be said for the weight of his memories, however subtly communicated that weight happened to be.

Aside from that, Veronica had been broadsided by how prophetic the comment '_always surprised when play-time turns ugly_' would eventually turn out to be. It didn't happen overnight, and while there were plenty of warning signs to tip her off to the statement's inevitability, the outcome did, eventually, turn out to come as a complete surprise when really, it shouldn't have.


	10. Something About a Robot Swearing

Some notes for the following scenes (and the remainder of the fic)- it'll be clear why it's needed. ED-E's lines incorporate two peoples' voices, and I'll still indicate some things about it in prose, but for now, read its dialogue as such: _italics_ indicate that it's some of the phrases/entries Veronica has recorded using her own voice, **bolds** indicate something she recorded from Marcus.

* * *

><p>[ 16 :: Something About a Robot Swearing ]<p>

* * *

><p>It wasn't long after Keene had ruined her sunglasses that there had been some repetition to the run-ins; on at least one other occasion, he'd made it a point to state that she made it difficult to resist the urge to hurt her, as if the warning was meant as some kind of courtesy.<p>

Again, she had a hard time reading it as anything but a threat, and again, he'd turned to leave, frustrated. From then on out was when he'd become more antagonistic, having decided that, if she didn't fit, he'd do his best to drive her out of his territory. And though she tried to stay in the bungalows to accommodate, it soon became clear to her that the lack of proper heating in those buildings would require her to work with Raul on fitting at least one of them with a generator and some kind of radiator before she could stay comfortably in one. The nights on the mountain got exceedingly cold sometimes, and it had forced her to stay in the main lodge.

That she chose the bedroom strewn with electronics and old ham radios had caused Keene no end of discomfort. That, she'd had explained, Calamity's attempts to fill her in on the Nightkin's condition lending some understanding to the situation.

"He avoids that room like the plague," Calamity told her. "He says the radios amplify his others when they're around."

"Others?" Veronica said, eyebrow raising.

"Voices," Calamity said. "He calls them 'others'. Hasn't heard them as often lately, probably 'cause of the meds... but he still stays away from most electronics. They're triggering."

Veronica had admitted that it had to be rough, having to deal with that kind of affliction. Still, she couldn't resist commenting on it.

"Guess it makes sense for me to stay in that room, then," she'd remarked.

"Why do you say that?"

The scribe smiled ruefully. "Keep all the things that 'don't fit' in one place."

Calamity had apparently just assumed that it was Veronica's way of saying she was still adjusting, still having trouble finding a place within the town's social structure- or she'd just ignored the comment entirely, as she hadn't brought it up again.

Keene, though, upon finding out about the scribe's decision to take up residence in the radio room, had taken the news as a sign that she had something sinister in mind. She only took it so seriously, hoping others would dissuade him from his beliefs; sadly, she discovered that most of the mutants that liked her were ones he rarely listened to anyway. And though Lily was also Nightkin, her manner had left her more or less ostracized from the larger group, something Veronica had yet to understand completely.

Either way, it mean that, while Keene hadn't outright vocalized on regular occasions, he'd show his suspicion by watching Veronica intently every time he caught her ascending the stairs to go to her room, more so during those times ED-E was in tow. And given his apparent aversion to broadcast equipment, the eyebot had also become a source of uncertainty, uncertainty that lead straight into a confrontation that had escalated to the point of possible violence.

The reasons were ones she'd seen as a little less patently silly or as outright irrational as anything else the Nightkin had snapped at her for, but to her mind, it had been petty. Even so, the situation had given her a good idea of just how intimidating the brute could be when he had more legitimate reasons to express his dislike of her.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>It all started so innocently; Veronica had kicked off the day with fine-tuning some of the tweaks she'd made to ED-E's voice recording and playback software, at which point she'd been determined to test it all out- with Marcus's help, though he wasn't informed of that little detail until she was ready to begin adding to the eyebot's voice profile.<p>

"What's the point of this?" Marcus asked her flatly, furrowing his brow as he raised a list of phrases up to his face. "Some kind of code?"

Veronica laughed. "No. Nothing that sophisticated."

"So... what's this about?"

"I need you to read those aloud," Veronica told him. "I'm trying to build a voice profile for ED-E, here."

"A voice profile..."

"Uh huh. All it's got on it right now is some silly music and a couple old recordings."

"But these phrases..."

"I know." Veronica grinned. "They're good, right?"

By the look on his face, he didn't share her opinion. "I think there's more profanity on this page than I've ever heard you say out loud," Marcus observed dryly.

"Something about a robot swearing," Veronica said. "Just gets me, you know? Warms my heart."

"But-"

"Come on," Veronica said, tugging on the old mutant's arm- what she could get her hand around, anyway. "Just say a few of them. It'll be fun!"

"Right," he said, underwhelmed. "Fun. Saying something like-"

"Hold that thought!" Veronica interrupted, raising her hands in a 'cease' gesture, waving ED-E over to hit a button on a small control panel hidden beneath a hinged metal plate.

"-Veronica," he warned her.

They held each others' gazes for a moment; eventually, the scribe made it a point to pout at the old mutant. He was unfazed, a raise of his eyebrow prompting her to throw up her arms in surrender.

"Fiiine," she sighed, hitting another button on the panel, the eyebot responding with a series of beeps. She turned back to Marcus to say, "I promise I'll delete anything you don't like. Just- try saying one of the phrases. Please?"

"And aside from sounding like an idiot," he said, "what do I get out of this?"

"Um..." good question. "How about, uh..." Hmn.

"How about you help modify some of those old plasma rifles Calamity picked up?" he suggested.

Veronica frowned. "Marcus... you know how I feel about that."

Again, he was maddeningly unfazed. "_You_ know," he said, nodding to the scrap of paper, "how I feel about this."

_Dammit._ "Spoilsport," she muttered. "Don't you guys prefer things like missile launchers, though? Gatling guns, things like that?"

"We do," he said, "but it doesn't hurt to have a variety," handing the paper back to her. "Never know what's gonna come up the mountain. Now if you don't mind-"

"Come on, Marcus," she all but whined at him, "I didn't even help Kette modify those things. I made her learn to do it on her own. All I helped her with was recharging the ammunition, and even _that_-"

"You taught Raul a few tricks," Marcus reminded her. "What's so different about this?"

"That doesn't count," Veronica sighed, looking at him ruefully. "He could've learned that on his own if he just-"

"Doesn't matter," he interrupted her. "Those are my terms. Take 'em or leave 'em."

Even if she knew better than to go with another round of dramatic pouting, Veronica couldn't help herself. But eventually, as with before, she relented; around here, there was little reason to be so uptight about reprisals. The mutants, unlike the NCR, had no interest in world domination or vast expansion; they just wanted to be left alone. Thus... the idea wasn't quite as riling as the one Colonel Moore had posed to her.

"Okay!" she said, raising her hands in surrender. "Alright. Have it your way. I'll work on those plasma rifles. Just-" she pushed at his hand, "read."

Considering his expression, he hadn't expected her to accept the offer. But once she had- he realized rather quickly that she was going to use her side of the bargain as leverage.

The first few test phrases had worked out better than she'd hoped, the eyebot responding to a few recorded triggers it would hopefully parse into 'phonetic algorithms,' coding that would enable anyone to say the trigger and get a response. By the time Marcus had gotten to some of the goofier phrases, however, it became clear that the so-called algorithm was a lot more squirrely than Veronica had intended it to be. Though it came as no big surprise, the spontaneity of the eyebot's comebacks made it clear that the problem could be more annoying than she thought it would be- on a variety of levels.

"You're really going to make me say I have bees in my bonnet?" Marcus asked her, thoroughly displeased, unaware that she'd had a second written page of phrases on-hand.

"I wasn't sure about it at first," Veronica told him, idly messing with the eyebot's control panel, "but I figured you wouldn't mind putting in a little extra work. You know," she smirked at him sidelong, "on account of the plasma rifles. And I think you mentioned something about recharging some spent ammunition..."

Marcus grunted irritably. "Well... I don't care how much you bribe me," he said, "I'm not saying 'junk in the trunk.'"

"Too late!" Veronica informed him cheerfully. "You just did."

He stared at her. "...Stop recording, Veronica," he growled at her.

"**What's my motivation?**" ED-E said.

Veronica blinked, and though highly amused at the apt response, she canted her head to look at the eyebot's speaker, as if that would somehow answer an unspoken question. "That wasn't supposed to happen," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"**I have a backpack,**" ED-E replied, unhelpfully.

"I'm sure you do," Veronica said, grinning lopsidedly. "Alright, Marcus-"

"_Polo,_" ED-E answered, her own voice that time, which- she had to admit, was a little weird.

That aside, the two of them looked at the eyebot incredulously.

"I'm going to spit on this thing," Marcus informed her gruffly.

Veronica laughed. "Oh, that's _perfect!_ That's better than the one I had written down."

He paused- and eyed her, muttering under his breath. "You do that one more time and we're done here."

"Don't be so mad," Veronica sighed, looking over at him. "I'm trying to get as many phrases into this thing as possible."

"So you're, what? Hitting record every time I say something?"

"Pretty much," she said. "But that's a good thing. The more I get from you today, the less likely it'll be that I have to ask you to-"

"**You're an idiot.**"

Marcus _heh'd_, a faint smile on his face. "For once," he said, "I agree with it."

Veronica squinted at the old mutant. "Very funny," she muttered, setting the eyebot to record again.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>The longer the recording session had gone on, the more scattered ED-E's responses had become. It no longer seemed to be reading from its listed triggers, instead responding to any old comment spoken in its vicinity. The effect had been rather entertaining at first, <em>hello's<em> and _how's it going's_ from those that greeted Veronica getting a myriad of peculiar phrases spat back at them at various intervals.

The best, though- were it not for the fact that it had turned the entire situation on its ear in the first place- had been the baffled expressions of Keene and one of his cohorts when the had eyebot stopped to announce "**I have bees in my bonnet,**" to the both of them.

The two Nightkin watched the eyebot warily as it departed to follow Veronica up the steps, the scribe slowing to a halt as she heard the ensuing conversation. All told, she couldn't tell if they were disconcerted or just outright bemused by what had just happened.

"57 is using voices again," she heard Keene growl. "All tricks..."

_...57?_

"Hearing him again?" said the underling- Hacksaw, as Veronica referred to him, a name the scribe had started calling him thanks to his grating voice. "I think I heard him too this time."

Keene grunted, irritation in his voice as he spoke. "You know better than to say things like that," he said testily.

"But I heard it!" Hacksaw protested, then paused to scratch his head. "Wait. ...Does Marcus- really have a bonnet?"

Whatever Keene had to answer with, it was interrupted by an unfortunately timed bout of laughter from the staircase. Though she'd started to descend the flight of stairs with the intent of explaining what had just happened, that question was all it had taken to do Veronica in. What started as a barely contained guffaw turning into a fit of the giggles. She did her best to stop the moment she saw Keene turn to stalk towards her, stopping only once he was at the base of the stairs, the angry stare he leveled on her... Really, if looks could kill, that one could have razed the whole resort to the ground. Sadly, even that couldn't keep her from sobering entirely.

"I'm sorry," she said, honestly, hands spread in an appeal as she took a couple steps back up the stairs. "Really. I didn't meant to overhear-"

"You think this is _funny?_" Keene barked at her, calling the attention of everyone in the lodge to the both of them.

"**Bark bark,**" ED-E said, Marcus's bass-tone voice made deeper by the deadpan inflection.

Veronica's heart skipped a beat at that bellow, but her smile came right back at ED-E's insertion, try as she might to keep it from happening. It was the slightly alarmed look he shot in the eyebot's direction that made her remember what Calamity had said about those 'others'- and what she'd just heard slowly started to come into context.

"You're actually hearing that," she told him, as calmly as she was able, smile fading. "It's not a voice. I had Marcus record some lines-"

"You did this to toy with me," Keene growled, advancing up the staircase, a move that forced her to backpedal. "You _did,_ didn't you?" he shouted, picking up speed, forcing her to gracelessly scramble up the staircase in an attempt to evade whatever was coming her way. "_You're_ the reason I'm hearing him again-"

"Keene!" Calamity's voice- coming right in time to stop the Nightkin from reaching out and seizing the scribe... probably by the neck, if that murderous expression said anything. "You need to come downstairs for a moment."

"Can it wait?" Keene snapped back at the ghoul, turning abruptly to face her. "I'm busy."

_Busy._ Veronica restrained a short laugh. _Busy trying to turn my face inside out..._

"No," Calamity said, shaking her head. "She's telling you the truth. That eyebot's been making comments all day. Everyone can hear it."

"It approached me! Spoke to me _directly!_ She-"

"It's been doing that to everyone," Calamity said. "You're fine. Trust me. Your medication's working."

"Then it's not-"

"No." Calamity canted her head to one side, saying, "Why don't you come downstairs? We can talk about this in the infirmary."

Wisely, Veronica kept her mouth shut through the entire proceedings, only too aware- if only thanks to Keene's proximity- of just how close that had gotten to an out-and-out brawl. It made her ease a little to see him relent, the ghoul's suggestion seeming to work out in her favor.

"This isn't over," the Nightkin growled at Veronica, that baleful look leveled on her a second time before he turned to descend the staircase.

"**Yay**," said ED-E, the brief glance Keene made over his shoulder making the scribe wince.

Really, if she made it through the next month without dying horribly, she'd be doing alright. The next two- she wasn't all that sure she could manage without losing it, herself.


	11. Hamburger

I KNOW this lead-up thing is going on forever. And ever. AND EVER. But soon now. _Soon_. There will be payoff, I swear to you.

You'll see a character pop up in this that defies canon a little. In my defense, I thought it was a fitting reassignment. As always, I did do some blatant assuming again (seriously, though, why _doesn't_ Moore have a company clerk?) so hopefully it doesn't suck. Consolidating this part, so this chapter is longer than usual. Trying to hustle things along a little.

Thanks to all the folks stickin' with this btw! :3 Hopefully I'm not boring the pants off of you.

* * *

><p><strong>[<strong> 17 :: Hamburger **]**

* * *

><p>The month of preparation came and went with little fanfare, and when the day finally came to depart, the morning rife with tension, Sarah found that she was relieved to finally be going through with it. Walking out of the A Ring and into the Citadel courtyard, she spotted both Knight Captain Dusk and Scribe Jameson standing alongside the Vertibird as it was undergoing its last few weapons checks, the both of them turning their attention to her as she approached.<p>

"You're getting that look again," Jameson remarked as Sarah came within earshot.

Sarah arched her eyebrows at Jameson, her look met with a wry, knowing smile from the older woman. Coming to a halt alongside the stocked and fueled Vertibird at the center of the Citadel's courtyard with their small crew nearly assembled and ready to go- save one, though he was soon to follow- the Sentinel found it difficult to keep her slight anxiousness at bay, a fact that was apparently showing up on her face.

Still, she was obligated to fire back with a curt, "What look?"

"_That_ look," Jameson said, her smile broadening. "Could it be you're finally looking forward to this little outing?"

Sarah pursed her lips to get rid of her own barely restrained smile, though it did little to curb the scribe's amusement. "Maybe."

"_I'm_ psyched," Dusk chimed in cheerfully, packing the last of her gear into the Vertibird's storage compartments. "Never been to the Chicago ruins before."

"For the last time," Sarah said flatly, "we're going to Colorado. We're only going to Chicago if, by some miracle, these talks actually go the way we want them to."

"Oh." Dusk paused. "Right. Well," she said, shrugging, "never been to Colorado, either. Honestly, I'm just happy to get a chance to see travel the countryside by vertibird. Not many people do these days."

Sarah cleared her throat, and said, "We'll just hope you don't get airsick this time."

"_Once,_" Dusk huffed, the power helmet she wore obscuring her expression but doing little to downplay her indignity. "That happened _once_, and it was thanks to that crappy squirrel meat we got from a street vendor."

Sarah smirked as she went to double-check the gear packed into the cargo hold. "Sure it was."

"Man, that was awful," Dusk muttered. "I couldn't put my helmet back on for weeks."

"At least the lot of you have had a chance to be on board," Jameson remarked, artfully cutting off any attempts made by the Paladin to explain the comment, "It's been ages since I've been on one."

"Was that for the trip out here?" Sarah asked absently, the bulk of her attention going towards running a mental checklist of their inventory as she scanned the contents of the cargo hold.

"It was, actually," Jameson replied, smiling faintly. "I was still an apprentice then."

Sarah grinned. "And I was, what... three? Four?"

Dusk chuckled. "I wasn't even born yet."

The smile fading to a faintly exasperated expression, Jameson said, "I didn't bring it up so the two of you could make me feel old."

"If it does, just close your eyes and think of Rothchild," Sarah said helpfully. "That'd make anyone feel younger."

"Or nauseous," Dusk amended.

"...Or a little of both, maybe," Jameson said under her breath.

Sarah let out a short laugh, surprised by the scribe's candid aside. "Do I detect a hint of resentment, there?"

"No," Jameson said. "Just a fair indication that the both of you are a bad influence on me."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sarah replied, taking a step away from the storage container once she was satisfied that they had everything they needed. "Looks like we're all ready on this end," she told the other two women.

"Should I close up the cargo hold, then?" Dusk asked, nodding towards the open hatch.

"Not just yet," Sarah said, nodding her head in the direction of an approaching Knight. "Gallows still needs to pack a couple things."

Dusk stiffened, the shift in her posture clear even through the bulky power armor. "-What? _Gallows_ is coming with?"

The echo of his power helmet's rebreather made the kissy sound Gallows gave Dusk even more absurd than it would have been normally. "He is," he informed her dryly, hauling some of his own extra gear towards the cargo hold.

Dusk muttered something under her breath, approaching Sarah to address her in a hushed voice. "You didn't tell me-"

"-because it doesn't matter," Sarah said, cutting the younger woman off with a raise of her hand. "You don't choose who stays or goes, remember?" She gave Dusk a sidelong 'don't make me pull rank' look. "_I _do- and you two are the best candidates for the job. I needed a good eye, and- well..."

"Some serious scary?" Dusk deadpanned.

"Which you're sorely lacking," Sarah said. "Look, just play nice, don't let him rile you, and everything'll be fine."

"Sure it will," Dusk muttered.

"Everything'll be fine, Dusk," Sarah repeated firmly. "Just remember: could always be worse."

"Yeah," Dusk said, snorting lightly. "Could be going with-"

"You say 'Colvin' and the next round of leave is going to him," Sarah said flatly. "Just so you're aware."

"Ah, excuse me," Jameson said, raising her hand to get Sarah's attention. "I hate to interrupt, but Gallows is finished loading up his equipment, and the pilot's been given the all-clear."

Sarah nodded, gesturing for Dusk and Gallows to board the Vertibird. She allowed herself a brief glance towards the Citadel's laboratories, but stopped herself short of giving one 'last' look around. Though she wasn't about to discount her misgivings about the mission, she knew better than to dwell on them, even momentarily. With or without the conflict of ideology that'd been going between Dusk and Gallows for some time, Sarah knew unit cohesion was by no means a concern, and knew that in spite of what could prove to be extraordinary odds, she couldn't have been in better company.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>"Have they made their last check-in?" Scribe Rothchild asked as he spotted Elder Lyons in his peripheral vision, his attention turning away from his console.<p>

"They have," Lyons confirmed with a slight nod. "Everything's going well. They'll be out of range within the hour... we won't hear from them again until they have access to the Midwestern comms system."

"I admit," Rothchild said, a half-smile on his face, "I had my concerns, but between you and the communiques we've been getting, I'm rather anxious to see what comes of it." Beat. "Really, the only remaining 'issue' is Sarah and her cohorts feeling a little let down by how- anticlimactic it all is."

Lyons chuckled. "Knowing Sarah," he said, "that sounds about right. But she needed to take this seriously... Much as I'm confident that everything will go smoothly, allowing her that same confidence may, ah- have _stunted_ the negotiation process."

Rothchild chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Once she finds out you played her, she won't be too happy with you."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," the Elder replied. "I'm sure she'll understand. Provided it needs to be explained..."

"Mum's the word." Lyons had nearly turned to leave when Rothchild turned to get his attention again, saying a quick, "Oh- one thing I should mention-"

"Yes?"

"The last communique we got from the Midwestern chapter," Rothchild said. "They mentioned something about a signal coming in from the West."

Lyons gave Rothchild an incredulous look. "They're in contact with the West as well?"

"Eh... After a fashion."

"And what do you mean by that, exactly?"

"It means- that I'm not sure it means," Rothchild said, giving a mild shrug. "All they said was that they think it was intended for us, that it was coded to our radio frequencies. Apparently it was little more than a series of frequencies and coordinates, but..." He shrugged. "We might want to tell Sarah- or Jameson, more likely, to inquire about it when their talks have concluded."

Lyons considered for a time, eventually giving a slow nod of agreement. "Seems odd that the Western chapters would try to get back in touch, save to make threats..."

"My thoughts exactly."

"...but we may as well find out what they've been saying," Lyons concluded, "if indeed they're attempting to re-establish communications of some kind. Whatever form that happens to take." Beat. "Get a message to Sarah and her team... let them know about this before they're out of range."

Rothchild nodded, turning his attention back to his console as the Elder departed. And curious though he was about the meaning behind the signal from their Western Brothers, he knew better than to get his hopes up.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Ending the brief transmission she'd run through ED-E's relays- one that consisted entirely of listing frequencies and coordinates and little else- and hoping that she hadn't used the wrong channels, Veronica sat back on the plush bed she'd taken as her own in the Jacobstown hotel-turned-commune. In front of her, ED-E hovered listlessly in the air, the grating along its front beginning to look more and more like a giant, psychotic smile.<p>

"Hello to you, too," she said, smiling back at the floating robot wearily.

"**Hamburger**," ED-E replied, Marcus's deep voice coming from its speaker.

Veronica sighed. As hilarious as attempting to program an additional voice interface for ED-E had been at first blush, she was beginning to realize that she might not have the chops to work so intricately with hardware- and software- that she was still trying to figure out. Getting the little eyebot to respond properly with its voice catalogue was still proving to be an incredibly frustrating endeavor, one that she was close to giving up on completely. She found it ironic, though, that 'hamburger,' one of the many words Marcus had been greatly opposed to saying for her, was the one ED-E seemed to reply with the most.

Raul's endeavors had been met with some success, however. Really, she had to hang it to the guy; getting it to communicate with the Black Mountain satellites and boost its signal was a feat unto itself. That she'd managed to establish any sort of stable uplink with the arrays was something of a minor miracle so far as she was concerned, but whether or not it _worked_ would be another matter entirely. For her part, she was pleased enough with the fact that, aside from making the eyebot's voice module completely useless, she'd managed to increase its ability to track her from a distance using little more than a transmitter she'd soldered into her power fist. Still, she'd be damned if she'd abandon her latest... rather pointless new hobby.

_And speaking of pointless,_ she thought ruefully, glancing back up at the omnipresent cycloptic happy-face the eyebot sported.

She'd been hesitant to request the frequency prior to leaving the Strip in the first place, but once she _had_ gotten her hands on it- all thanks to Kette- she was almost positive that it wouldn't be of any use to her. Sure, Kette had given numerous assurance that the information was genuine and furthermore, that she'd been extremely careful about extracting it from the Mojave Brotherhood's databanks, but that didn't mean it was definitely going to work. The whole endeavor was still a shot in the dark; there were absolutely no guarantees that the message would pierce through the mess of background radiation that had settled between the two coasts, and even if it _did_, there was no guarantee that it'd come through unscrambled.

That said, she couldn't deny the rush of excitement she got from the notion that maybe, _just maybe_, she'd strike paydirt. The only thing that held her up was the stab of guilt that came from utterly failing to give her new home an actual chance. It had only been a couple weeks since Keene had nearly pummeled her into a fine paste, and ever since, there'd been no further confrontations. Still, nothing had been settled... and the distinct feeling of being relegated to the role of 'Outsider' was one that had persisted. It was enough to prompt her into making the call, but- whether or not she could hardly be blamed for it, it didn't sit well with her. Felt like she was giving up a little too quickly.

Telling herself that an answer was unlikely, that even if they _did_ answer she didn't have to accept the call, she found that she could mitigate those feelings, at least- but only to a slight degree.

"Think they'll ever respond?" Veronica asked aloud to no one in particular, though she aimed it at the eyebot.

"**Stop recording, Veronica**."

"I though I erased that clip," she sighed, laying back against the bed.

"**Hamburger**," said ED-E.

"Yeah," she said to the ceiling, her smile fading. "Hamburger."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Having vacated the lodge in an attempt to get her head together, Veronica hadn't intended on seeking Lily's company when she'd stepped off the porch- indeed, that seemed as though it would only intensify the workings of a guilty conscience- but, seeing the elderly Nightkin peacefully tending to the herd of Bighorners, the idea seemed to have some merit. Having left ED-E back in her room and finding herself in need of some company- company that would give her continued presence in the town some merit, though she wasn't about to admit it- she made her way over to the half-destroyed fences surrounding the small herd, arms draping loosely over one of the weathered wooden posts.<p>

"Need any help?" she asked, inwardly acknowledging that she was entirely too fatigued to make good of the offer.

Lily took note of it, her otherwise difficult to read expression registering mild curiosity, even behind the bulky sunglasses. Raising her head, the elderly Nightkin sniffed at the air; the move was a common one among the town's inhabitants, one that Veronica had become less bemused by over time. It still struck her as odd, even a bit invasive, but if it helped those she was getting to know become better acquainted with her, she wasn't entirely against it.

"Poor dear," Lily said, sympathetic, "you hardly sound like you're in any shape to lend a hand... but I appreciate the offer."

"You mean I don't smell like it," Veronica replied, smiling lopsidedly.

Lily gave a reasonable facsimile of a smile. "That, too," she said, somewhat apologetically. "You'll have to forgive your old grandma for that, pumpkin'. Old habits have a way of outliving their usefulness..."

"It's okay. Seems like it's been useful enough for folks around here..." Veronica paused, considerate. "Does it help?" she asked, curious. "Doing that, I mean."

"Oh, it most certainly does," Lily replied, only too happy to explain the phenomena. "Back in the old days, Master encouraged us to use our senses to get a better read on our enemies. Some of the Nightkin, why, they'd spend days training their noses to pick up on cues like that. 'Least, when it didn't come naturally..."

"How did they train?"

Lily shook her head. "Best you didn't ask, dear." She turned abruptly at the sound of a pair of Bighorners clashing, her heavy hands raising together with a loud clap. "Hey!" she bellowed at them, exerting that scratchy voice of hers to further startle the animals. "I said _no fighting!_" It didn't seem like it should work- but it did, regardless, the two males backing away from each other slowly. "Honestly," the elderly Nightkin sighed, "those two won't be happy 'til they've gone an' beaten each other to death. Old Muttonhead," she continued, waving towards the Bighorner that still looked ready for a fight, "can't quite seem to catch a break from the youngsters these days."

"Muttonhead?" Veronica asked, grinning.

"Yes," Lily said. "They don't _all_ have names... but seeing as he's been around the longest, there didn't seem to be any harm in giving him a nickname." She shook her head. "He won't last much longer, though... the herd's already decided he's getting too old for them."

Unwittingly noting the parallel therein, Veronica opted to remain quiet on that point. Instead, she watched the old Bighorner as he shuffled irritably to the outskirts of the herd, grudgingly assuming the place the younger bulls had put him in. She didn't have any doubt that, out in the wild, he'd have been left for dead some time ago. Inwardly, she had to laugh at herself for sympathizing a little too heavily with both the mutant and the aptly-named Muttonhead.

Drawn from her reverie by the elderly Nightkin looking abruptly towards the mountain peaks, Veronica turned to glance in that direction as well. Finding nothing, she furrowed her brow, turning back towards Lily curiously.

"You see something?"

Lily kept looking for a time, nostrils flaring as she again scented the air, her muted expression showing hints of intense concentration. "It's probably nothing," she announced, then, shaking her head. "Leo says they're shadows."

Leo. Veronica paused, glancing back towards the lodge. The name was one she would've benfitted from remembering amidst the confrontation with Keene; something told her both Lily's 'other' and this so-called '57' shared a great deal in common. Still, something about the sudden nature of Lily's reaction to- whatever it was up in the hills compelled the former scribe to keep her eyes on the grouping of snow-covered trees that had become the mutant's point of focus, if in fact that had been it. She couldn't see anything there, nor any sign of movement... but she found it oddly difficult to let it drop.

After a while, she finally did... and under the cover of the trees, their eyes locked on the movements of the two individuals tending the Bighorner herd, a group of four soldiers slowly began to relax, the camera held by the squad leader raised to take one last snapshot.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

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><p>Of all the things Brigadier General Cassandra Moore had <em>thought<em> she'd be doing upon receiving a promotion, wading knee-deep into regional and Republic-wide politics hadn't part of those expectations. Furthermore, there were matters concerning the occupation of outlying farmland that was being treated with a confounding amount of urgency. It was only a week after her promotion that she'd been given the orders to start drafting up strategies to secure the new territories from their present inhabitants, nearly two months since the Fiends had been eradicated.

While normally, she'd find the efficiency refreshing, something about it wasn't sitting well with her... and for the life of her, she couldn't tell what it was.

On the local front, Colonel Hsu had picked up an incredible amount of the slack when it came to further securing the region, but for all the legitimate good that did, Moore was busier than she ever had been in the past. And considering there wasn't even a war on, that seemed like a feat in and of itself. One of the things she'd been tasked with, she hardly minded- sending out bloodhound units to track down and destroy what remained of the Legion's forces had been more satisfying than taxing- but some of the others...

Her former affiliation with the Rangers made her feel personally obligated to be involved in cleaning up the mess the late Chief Hanlon had made of the organization. Acting on an ailing conscience, he had, in the span of an hour, sewn the seeds of distrust, thrown everything the Rangers had done into question... and had made many in military and political circles question whether or not the organization's autonomy and lack of greater oversight had created a liability rather than an asset.

The impact ran so deep that by the time she'd heard about his duplicitous plan to hinder the occupation of the region- and what he'd done when it was exposed- her resentment towards his decision to commit suicide had grown every minute of every day she had to deal with what he left behind.

_Miserable old bastard didn't even have the decency to stand in front of a firing line. Figures._

And lo, the moment the news went viral- coming in as it did on the coat-tails of what state officials back home were calling a 'highly contraversial and questionably heavy-handed strike' against the Fiends, though they'd referred to them as 'misguided natives' to put a fresh spin on it- plans were already underway to up-end the entire program. Moore was certain that if the military didn't involve itself in the process, the Rangers would be de-fanged and de-clawed and, unsurprisingly, that was precisely what happened. General Oliver- his grudge against the late Hanlon's elite speaking for him more often than not- had denied her many requests to be on the advisory panel tasked with finding a solution to the problem, and had all but banned military involvement in the proceedings.

In the end, she could only watch the chain of events from afar- and she did, no matter how much it turned her stomach to see it happen. There was no way to maintain the organization as it had been, and there seemed to be little interest in turning the wreckage into something that at least vaguely resembled what had been, in the past, a highly respected and incredibly effective force. Sadly, there seemed to be no end of obstacles when it came to doing just that; as irritatingly sluggish as they could be when drafting up new legislation, the Republic's Senatorial boards had been amazingly swift when it came to dismantling the organization. That, too, reeked of foul play, but unlike the orders she'd received concerning the occupation of new territories, she didn't have to wonder why she took poorly to it.

But then came the distractions that should have been menial, but became all-consuming. _Those_ were the ones she truly hated.

Ambassador Crocker, even more puffed-up with self-importance after being appointed a position of greater political power, had been instrumental in shafting her with a new set of duties. He hadn't hesitated to put his new authority to 'good use,' as he put it. He was exceptionally talented when it came to bending the ears of the soft-minded senators and limp-wristed congressman back in California, and they, in turn, used their clout to bend the ears of receptive military commanders. If they were still engaged in an all-out war, all the behind-the-scenes chatter wouldn't have made a difference. Domestic policies would have been undercut by military objectives in unsecured territories, but as it was a time of peace in a region that the NCR now claimed, the military was forced to bow to the judgment of the government back home.

That being the case, General Oliver, riding high on 'his' latest victory, ever the Golden Boy of the NCR hierarchy, had brought Crocker's... _suggestions_ back to her. It didn't matter that Crocker's ideas made _sense_- that she was an ideal candidate and indeed, one of the few active members of the military able to make the preferred impact... but considering their history together, she was convinced he'd mostly just done it to screw with her.

And thanks to him, her initial meetings with the former Scribe of the Mojave Brotherhood, both clandestine and otherwise, had been something of a primer for things to come. Moore had found herself dealing with the Brotherhood on a semi-regular basis, trotted out like an old warhorse for what were, essentially, over-glorified photo-ops with the 'ambassadors' their new so-called allies sent. It had been stressed to her on numerous occasions that, with their new diplomatic ties still in their infancy, a great deal of care had to be put into keeping clashes to a minimum- and the Brotherhood's plans to begin regular patrols along the I15, the 95 and other trade routes made the need for local support even more pressing.

"Considering your reputation, you're the best chance we've got for establishing a little trust in our new allies," she'd been told, by Oliver himself. "

"If I may, sir," she'd said, maintaining as respectful a tone as she could manage under the circumstances, "calling them 'allies' seems a bit premature. I'm willing to bet that their interest in patrolling the roads serves them more than it'll ever serve us."

"That's the kind of attitude we're hoping we can put a stop to," Oliver replied dryly. "There's a few... 'high profile' types-" -_Kimball's campaign financiers,_ she thought ruefully, _same ones who lobbied to have you put in charge-_ "-who're hoping that this is the first step towards peace with Brotherhood back home."

_You're kidding, right?_ Moore arched an eyebrow at the General, saying, "Permission to speak freely, sir?" in a none-too-happy tone.

"Permission denied," Oliver replied, seeming to know full well what she was angling at- and rightly so- eager to dismiss her and get on with his day.

It was aggravating; ever since Kimball had drawn her name from the short list of Colonels up for promotion, Oliver had been far more heavy-handed when it came to his dealings with her. '_One star to my four,_' was a phrase he'd become particularly fond of.

Aside from being profoundly irritating, however, it was neither here nor there; it didn't matter whether or not she got her say. The response would undoubtedly be the same. There were plenty of people back in California who, no matter their history with the technophillic tribe, were aching to get a trade agreement signed with the Brotherhood. It was futile, of course, but she knew better than to argue with individuals who were more smitten with dollar signs than they were with logistics.

As for her, she could argued that she was better left to continue overseeing the clean-up that needed to be done in the wake of the Legion's retreat, argued that the region would accept the Brotherhood's presence on the basis that everyone was still raw from the _last_ war, but she'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that whatever she had planned to do, Colonel Hsu could handle well enough on his own.

She didn't doubt that- Hsu was more than capable- and while she was grateful that she and the Colonel had developed a less confrontational dynamic over the last month and a half, she was nonetheless a bit... jealous of the duties he'd been handed, if only thanks to how deeply she despised her own.

Even if she recognized the necessity of the meetings held with both the Brotherhood ambassadors and some of their higher-ranking members, she hated being so thoroughly immersed in region politics, hated even more the notion of being more of a symbol rather than a respected military commander. It didn't matter that it was just for a short period of time. It undermined her honesty and her integrity in several respects, had forced her to hold her tongue whenever her colleagues had asked what her actual opinion of the situation happened to be. Once in the spotlight, she knew, it was almost impossible to get out of it until the public grew weary of you- and men like Ambassador Crocker were undoubtedly getting no end of amusement out of seeing her put to use in that capacity.

And then, on top of all of that, there was still the task of coordinating a new effort of expansion, one that had presented a couple snags of its own. She'd been given a direct role in overseeing the proceedings, and, upon securing what few working cameras there were in the area, had assigned two hand-picked squads to do reconnaissance on the territory her superiors were so interested in. Once that was put into motion, she was withdrawn from diplomatic duties, the dreaded spotlight already starting to divert its attention elsewhere.

The task at hand? Seizing resource-rich territories from a bunch of super mutants. Far from thrilling, but definitely more in her area of expertise than shaking hands with ambassadors and feigning congeniality for the sake of public appearances.

The settlement was called Jacobstown. For some time, the NCR had been aware of the community, but aside from a few overzealous brahmin barons and Bighorner ranchers making noise about wanting the land they occupied for themselves, there'd been little interest in securing the territory. Resources were spread too thin, and the military needed every able-bodied man and woman they could get their hands on to serve in their fight against the Legion. Now that they had a stable foothold, however, the need to produce a greater yield of meats and other animal products for what would inevitably become a steadily growing populace had brought both the military and the civilian government to an agreement on the matter. True, there were some abandoned farms that already built that purpose, ones that needed only to be brought back from years of neglect, but the barons had been right: fewer territories were better suited for Bighorners specifically, and the reports of a surplus of wild herds populating the area had significantly raised interest, both local and otherwise.

The only point of irritation had been the information Moore's clerk had dug up about the barons' prolonged interest in the locaton; in the efforts of trying to secure the help of the military earlier in the year, many of those vying for control of the land had already sought to provoke the mutants into giving them a reason to attack... an attack that would have obligated the military to respond. Finding out about that hadn't changed her orders any, but it had made her far more leery about the entire operation. Even so, she was determined to make the solution more elegant and more- straightforward than what had been attempted in the past. She had ordered several scouts to the area to find the best points of entry, had asked the Ranger station posted nearby to monitor all communications and had, lastly, begun speaking with Crocker about his tree-hugging take on diplomatic measures. She'd been pleased to find that he had no objections to exercising 'extreme prejudice' on the matter.

Everything was promising to go smoothly, until one of her scouting units tasked with taking photos of the community had come back with a surprising revelation. The hour was late, and it was nearly time for her to call it a night when the news arrived.

"Ma'am?"

She looked up from her desk to see her clerk standing in her doorway, a curious look on his face. The man had been transferred over to her when, a few months prior to the second battle of Hoover Dam, her old clerk had the nerve to be promoted and moved into a combat role. The moment it happened, she'd demanded a replacement, and they'd found one that was perfectly suited to the assignment.

Upon seeing the man's record, she'd asked them if they were joking. When she was informed that, no, they were quite serious, she'd given herself some time to think on her request. The stack of paperwork looming at the far end of her desk had ultimately been what made her accept, however dubious the candidate's record.

Hailing from a squad of, quite simply, the biggest pile of fuck-up she'd ever seen, the man in question was a pacifist by nature. He would have made a better cook than infranty. But, turning the idea over in her head, she couldn't say those weren't bad traits to have in someone who was assigned to longer stretches of desk duty than even she was. Pacifists could be badgered, frightened, and generally antagonized into doing what was necessary without much effort, provided he ever got the inclination to slack off- as his record so eloquently stated he had, to an epic degree. Not his fault, the board assured her; it was a distinct clash of personalities and 'poor leadership' that caused the biggest problems, saying nothing about his attitude towards fighting. But, once the squad was broken up and its members reassigned, there was some hope for improvements- and thanks to her request, they were certain they found a spot where the last remaining member of the group could fit.

But there was the small issue of his name.

_O'Hanrahan._ She nearly withdrew her request altogether based on the prospect of being forced to say it out loud.

Still, with an inbox that was getting increasingly packed with every kind of form imaginable, she took a chance that maybe she'd get used to hearing it.

Unsurprisingly, she never did.

That said, there were worse choices to make; if O'Hanrahan was anything, he was prompt, hard-working and strangely impenetrable to insults. He hadn't batted an eye when she'd told him to get rid of the ridiculous cowlick hanging over his forehead, either, and went ahead and did it that same day. And while she wasn't sure she liked him all that much, she'd at least benefited from her decision to take him on as a clerk.

"Private," she greeted him as he stepped over the threshold, not at all surprised to see him holding yet another stack of completed papers; she'd nearly told him to wait on presenting the paperwork to her when she saw a manilla envelop containing a stack of photographs. "Are those from the scouts?" she'd asked, a slight raise of her head giving him implicit permission to enter.

"Yes'm," O'Hanrahan replied, dutifully making his way over to her desk. "Whole mess'a photographs they got for you today."

Depositing the folder on her desk, he'd barely had time to set down the coffee he'd fetched for her when she'd spotted a photo that made her every muscle go tense. There, amidst the towering forms of the FEV-addled beasts, was a peculiar Nightkin with a straw hat tending to a group of Bighorners, an incredibly familiar young woman standing alongside it.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed under her breath.

O'Hanrahan blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Not you," she said, laying the photo down on her desk to point plainly at the former scribe helping to tend with the Bighorners nearby. "This woman. Did they say if they spent any time tracking her?"

"Er... they didn't say," O'Hanrahan said, eyebrows raised, mildly perplexed by her reaction. "'Least, not in the reports. Said somethin' about-" he pondered. "Somethin' about it lookin' like she was workin' with a couple'a them zom-" beat, "ghouls," he corrected himself. "Fixin' generators and the like." He paused again, glancing down at the photo she had in hand. "Kinda peculiar," he remarked, "pretty girl like that shackin' up with a bunch'a mutants."

_I wouldn't call it 'peculiar,'_ Moore thought irritably, a slew of internalized expletives following in the thought's wake.

"Is there anything else?" she asked, glossing over the young man's observation.

"No, ma'am," he said, shaking his head. "Just the report n'them photos."

"I'll need some new orders drafted up for them within the hour," she said distractedly, turning her eyes back to the photos presented to her. "It should-" she paused, waiting for him to retrieve his trusty pad and paper so he could jot down notes. "It should inform them," she began again, "to return to the settlement so they can get as many photos of the surrounding area as possible. Once that's finished, they're to hold position at the old Ranger station and wait for further instructions." She waited for him to finish writing, her eyebrows arching once he got a chance to look up at her. "You got all that?"

"Yes ma'am," O'Hanrahan said, scanning his notes. "Take photos of the area-"

"-With an eye out for any positions that can be exploited by our sharpshooters," she added as an afterthought.

He jotted the note down. "By... sharpshooters," he repeated under his breath. "Got it. An', ah- after that, they're headed back to the Ranger station 'til you send 'em new instructions." Beat. "Or, you know- somethin' like that."

"Can't read your own handwriting?" she said, vaguely amused. Before he could respond, she continued, saying, "I realize it's late, but I'll need you to draft something up before you head out tonight," Moore said, raising a hand to rub lightly at her temples. "And by the way," she amended, letting her hand drop, "You might want to resist using the phrase 'something like that' in the final copy." Beat. "You're dismissed."

O'Hanrahan nodded and hurried out, the tone he heard her take with him leading him to be decidedly hasty about his departure.

Left alone in what passed for her office, Moore let out a soft, humorless chuckle, loosely tossing the photo onto her desk. "That's twice now," she said to no one in particular.

Twice that the former scribe had put the General in a tenuous position, their past association prone to becoming a liability if it turned out that she'd been helping the mutants improve their technology. Twice that she'd have to try making a deal, or getting rid of the young woman altogether. If the Brotherhood ever found out that one of their own, exile or no, was helping a group of super mutants, and that she had done so under Moore's watch...

Regardless of how little attention Jacobstown had been paid, nothing good could ever come of it. Never mind that during peace talks, Moore herself had been the one to vouch for Veronica when it came to her unwillingness to share secrets with outsiders. As expected, her presence at Hoover Dam had called the former scribe's- and the NCR's own- integrity into question, as it raised the possibility that she was, in fact, doing exactly what Moore had proposed to her in the first place.

It could be worse, Moore knew. Much worse. But it still looked bad- extremely bad, in fact, if their campaign to take the territory lead them to secure any modified equipment the scribe had worked on. Sure, the equipment could be destroyed, but being the one to give the order to have it destroyed in the first place would lead to too many questions, and even more uncomfortable answers.

"That's what you get for sentimentality," she muttered to herself, pulling open one of her desk drawers to unearth a half-drained bottle of scotch, a shot's worth of liquor poured into the coffee O'Hanrahan had brought in.

Won't make _that_ mistake again.


	12. Man Panties and Frilly Skirts

Just so anyone who's played Tactics knows: I've had to do a lot of strong-arming with the game's canon in order to make it compatible with the rest of the series. Things will be a bit different than the way it's detailed in the endings (obviously), and a lot of the details are shuffled around in order to make it true to the over-arcing plot line.

Otherwise, there's a couple notes worth making: since NORAD got its shit ruined in the war (_see: Chris Avellone's Fallout Bible_), the location of that particular base is probably still suffering from high levels of radiation. Thus, I'm saying that what Tactics calls 'Vault 0' had been established off-site since NORAD would have been a high-profile target and a bad place for a shelter. By the time 2281/82 rolls around, the radiation load in that area has dimmed, but NORAD is nonfunctional (it's mentioned as having gone offline in FO2).

Lastly: again, only for anyone who's actually played Tactics, there's gonna be some 'huh?' aspects in this, but I assure you, all will become clear eventually. No really!

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><p>[ 18 :: Man Panties and Frilly Skirts ]<p>

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><p>For the diplomatic detachment from the Citadel, things weren't going much better. At first, it had appeared as though everything were on the level, proceeding as expected, but slowly, their strict planning and priorities were beginning to unravel, through no fault of their own.<p>

The path they'd been told to navigate into the base of operations was convoluted at best, but it became clear why well before they landed. Cheyenne Mountain, once the host of NORAD, had been partly obliterated; they'd been warned several times that getting in too close to the crater could expose them to perilously high levels of radiation that still lingered from the Great War. Nearby, beneath Fort Carson, was the location the Midwestern Brotherhood had claimed as their own, a fallout shelter that had been loosely termed 'Vault 0' by political allies of the Enclave that had found themselves excluded from the organization's list of prioritized individuals.

According to Jameson- who had gone on at length about the project prior to their arrival in Colorado- Vault 0 was intended to be the nucleus of the Vault project. When the costs of keeping up with the Enclave's agenda far exceeded the national budget, the Vault project was turned over to contractors, and the government itself launched its own campaign to preserve both Federal officials and what it deemed to be the best and the brightest. They had gotten as far as convincing some of the top minds in the scientific and sociological fields to involve themselves in the project, many of their brains transplanted into a network that powered a supercomputer. When this occurred, and whether or not those individuals had known of their fates going into it was entirely up in the air.

The supercomputer project was tentatively named 'the Calculator,' little more than a working title that the designers had intended to change by the time the Vault started taking on politicians, key NORAD personnel and noteworthy civilians, but something had gone wrong. They ran out of time, and both projects- the central computer and the Vault itself- had to be shortchanged, the construction of the Vault hampered by both an incredible amount of mismanagement and significant financial problems; as a result, it had barely been functional by the time the bombs hit.

By all accounts, Vault 0 was a colossal failure, but apparently, the Midwesterners had seen something impressive enough to deem it a worthy base of operations. What had impressed them, Jameson wasn't able to say, but it was a fair bet that the Calculator may have had something to do with it. Beyond that, everything was up to speculation; without the ability to maintain contact with the Midwestern chapter until recently, the facility's specs were largely unknown.

Upon landing, they were greeted by two paladins sporting rather unique power armor and lead through what remained of Fort Carson. The base, originally intended to be used as a training ground in the pre-war era, was enjoying a revival all its own; instead of US Army troops, it was proving to be incredibly useful in training Brotherhood initiates, all of whom lived, worked, ate and slept above ground. The Vault itself was only put to use by full-fledged members of the Midwestern chapter, and even they weren't permitted to enter certain areas.

Inside, the Vault looked nothing like those Sarah and her team had seen schematics for on the East or West coast, a testament to its designation as a cheap knock-off. Exploration was quickly put on hold, however, as the team's interest in doing so had been effectively stymied by the startling appearance of what was, in effect, the emissary of the Midwestern Elders.

A peculiar cross between a Sentry and a Robobrain, its- _his_, rather- mechanical body had been given a dusky silver paint job, though flecks had peeled off to show a coat of dull, faded red beneath; one arm was host to a massive, clawed 'hand' of sorts while the other, longer than its mate, sported what appeared to be high-powered energy weapon. It wasn't the only thing unique about the towering monstrosity; as it was, both the brain and the the eyes of the host had been preserved, the unblinking stare leveled on the newcomers.

Additionally, his voice had been preserved. Calling himself The General, he had the bearing- if it could be called that- of a takes-no-prisoners drill sergeant, his every word like a barked order, even when he was being personable. He explained that, while the Elders had intended on meeting the Citadel's diplomatic detachment originally, they had listened to their wary advisors and had decided to take precautions instead. It was a sentiment Sarah could understand, but it made her wonder, again, why her father had offered her presence as a 'sign of good faith' when it was clear the Midwesterners had no intention of providing their own.

The Elders had apparently anticipated this, as the General had gone on to say that they meant no insult, had every intention of making a significant gesture of their own in the form of offering unparalleled access to the facility's archives, and that, were they not in the midst of some rather trying times, they would have been much more forthcoming about making an appearance. There would, however, be video correspondence during the negotiations.

Jameson, for her part, had her own additional priorities, though those were shut down quickly. Intrigued by the possibility of seeing the Calculator, or what remained of it, her inquiries into its presence were met with a stern warning; she was told in no uncertain terms that while her curiosity was understandable, no one was to be permitted to see the supercomputer. She would just have to settle for access to the archives.

Considering the wealth of information they offered, she hardly seemed all that disappointed by the prospect, though the response had only amped up her curiosity; after all, the General's unwillingness to 'permit' any sightseeing all but confirmed that the Calculator still existed.

And then came the negotiations.

At first, the video feeds had functioned, displaying their primary Elder, a man by the name of Dekker. According to the General, Dekker had descended from the man who'd taken a central role in ensuring that the Calculator- apparently still possessing the preserved brains of those that had been installed prior to the war at that time- hadn't gone through with its intent to blow half of humanity straight to hell, a story the detachment team later corroborated with Jameson's help. To a degree.

Nonetheless, the Elder seemed more than competent, had spoke briefly of the Midwesterner's history in the area, but the longer the negotiations went, the more peculiar his responses to various questions became. It eventually became clear that the peculiarities could be blamed on the poor satellite uplink that had been established with one of the nearby Brotherhood bunkers. At that point, Dekker was forced to excuse himself from the proceedings as the relays were repaired, but assured Sarah and the others that the General knew what was to take place, and that he could speak for the Elders as he had already.

Moving on from there, however reluctantly, Sarah was nonetheless pleased to find that the trades that had initially been discussed- access to the Chicago ruins and other Enclave outposts in exchange for splitting whatever armor and weapons they found in those facilities, as well as additional weapons choppered in whenever the Eastern Brotherhood was able to spare the equipment- were easily agreed upon. To sweeten the deal, the General had offered to send the Pride home with surplus suits of Midwestern power armor, something that hadn't been expected, but was nonetheless appreciated.

Gallows, upon hearing about that particular gesture, was beside himself; as beside himself as he was able to get, at least.

All in all, the entire group had been treated warmly. A little too warmly, at least by the admittance of one of the men they'd spoken with- a man that called himself 'Just Plain Bob' that just barely qualified as maintenance personnel, identified as a shop-jockey's apprentice- in their first few weeks of being present. Asked where the Midwestern leaders were after introductions had been made, he'd shrugged.

"They know how you see us," he remarked. "Them kids, the 'initiates'... been told to put on a little dog and pony show for you, make it look like we're jus' one big happy family."

"And are you?" Jameson asked.

"I'm talking to you, ain't I?" Just Plain Bob said, as if that clarified everything, his head turning to spit a black wad of chewing tobacco into a mess of metal piping alongside him. "They ain't gonna hurt you, no sir... but they gonna try an' make it look like all's well, y'know?" Beat. "Well it ain't. Them goose-steppin' knuckledraggers, the boys in charge'a this outfit're just a cunthair away from bein' jus' as bad as them so-called 'Lee-juhn-airs.' You help out, you're good people- but you'd do well t'steer clear after that. Get out while the gettin's good, an' let attrition take its course."

Having stated his case, Just Plain Bob went back to work, stuffing a wad of tobacco leaves into his cheek to replace what he'd spat out. Sarah and Jameson were both left incredulous by the encounter, but they'd made it a point to keep from discussing it until they were sure they had a little privacy, and 'Bob' wasn't liable to get in trouble. Jameson's only remark had been that she planned on looking up the man's personnel file before they departed.

As it turned out, the engineer, his tribal name a mess of consonants that neither she nor Jameson could make heads or tails of, was listed as a malcontent. The scribe had remarked, then, that she saw a number of well-mannered initiates listed in the same fashion. Strange though it was, 'malcontents' in the ranks of initiates was practically a given.

Bob's statement lingered, however; the possibility that he was a genuine rabble rouser made it unlikely that he was doing much more than rocking the boat, but there was a kind of honesty to his statement that made both women wonder.

After that, the negotiations had concluded, with little fanfare. And that was when the 'fun' started.

Their vertibird had been the target of sabotage, as had several other vehicles the Midwesterners laid claim to. Though left in what they'd assumed was a secure area, the Legion, the General explained, had ways of finding their way onto the base, especially when it came to putting armored vehicles out of commission. They couldn't afford to be on even ground, he'd said, going on to say that although they'd been a formidable enemy in the past, their tactics had shifted, had become desperate, as if they hadn't the resources to continue fighting the Brotherhood as vigorously as they had been. As if something had happened that had hamstrung their entire war effort.

As interesting as all the speculation was, Sarah was far more interested in knowing what had happened to the vertibird. Her request to see a video log of the incident was followed up on swiftly, what she saw lending credence to why the Midwest was so insistent on getting some extra armaments to aid in their fight.

Legionaries had been spotted on the video feeds that relayed information in from the landing pad and other vehicular storage areas, and overnight security had managed to take down some of the offenders when they'd seen hints of activity around the vehicles. The infiltrators had been shot and killed, the bodies disintegrated.

It was an anomaly that made the Sentinel highly curious. When asked why overnight security had been so diligent in disposing of the bodies, the General explained that the outbreak of an aggressive contagion had made it necessary to follow strict quarantine protocols. Their proximity to the Boulder Dome made this doubly necessary, he'd said, as the area was still considered a New Plague hot zone.

Both assertions were verified by Jameson once she'd looked through the archives, though the scribe admitted that she'd stumbled across some strange anomalies in the retellings. That point was subverted by another, however.

Aggravatingly, the report that came back concerning the vertibird stated that repairs would take some time. There were talks of what to do then, of course, at which point the General made it painfully clear that while they could help out with training some of the new recruits around the base, doing anything that could potentially get them killed was out of the question. The last thing the Midwest needed was the East Coast suspecting them of deliberately sabotaging the vertibird of the Elder's daughter, saying nothing of what the response would be to getting her hacked to pieces by their overzealous, anachronistic foes.

They had enough troubles as it was, and if Just Plain Bob's statement had any merit to it, the Midwesterners had absolutely nothing to gain from being seen as hostage-takers.

When asked about the primary source of those troubles, General had plenty to say.

Starting with, "Bunch've backwards, holier-than-thou cocksuckers is what they are." the General grunted. "Wouldn't even be worth the time if there weren't a fucking lot of 'em prancing around playing 'empire.' Most've 'em are just idiot teenagers from the local tribes, looking to make up for the fact that the best part of 'em dried up on the inside'a their momma's thigh."

Sarah had made it a point to remember that one for later.

And really, when the General had gone on to describe them as 'a bunch of miserable punks who think man-panties and frilly skirts pass for armor,' she thought he'd been exaggerating. Sure enough, one of the paladins at the Cheyenne base had shown her a classic Legionary outfit and- behold. Man panties and a skirt, though much to her disappointment, said skirt was not frilly.

"You should try 'em on," Dusk suggested to Gallows, gesturing loosely at said panties.

"You first," Gallows retorted. "If you can get them up over your chastity belt."

The rest hadn't ended well.

That aside, the mandate to stay put and 'be safe'- a mandate that was repeated by Elder Lyons when Sarah made contact with him about the vertibird- was one the Pride took to poorly. Jameson, however, had been thrilled to learn the lay of the land as well as study some of the texts provided to her by Midwestern Scribes, had been more than happy with the layover, whereas Sarah, Gallows and Dusk had never been more restless.

The latter two had eventually taken to actually communicating with each other in a way that didn't include a litany of insults for the sake of killing boredom with a few stray card games, but that didn't mean Gallows' own boredom didn't occasionally compel him to mess with the Sniper. Sarah, for her part, couldn't be made to care if they tried to beat the snot out of each other; sure, she'd break up a fight if it looked like it could end in an actual casualty, but so far as she was concerned, the bickering and occasional slap fight was her only form of real entertainment.

Boredom had eventually lead to taking the General up on his offer to help train initiates. Getting a chance to see them in action, ask them questions about their backgrounds and help with some training exercises had been... as enlightening as it'd been confusing.

The Midwest's inclusion of mutants- with rumors of 'intelligent Deathclaws' that couldn't possibly be true- had come as a shock all its own, and ghouls? Sarah had done her best to avoid both types of recruit as best she could, but occasionally she'd been forced to talk with them- a unique experience if ever there was one. Unwilling to let herself wonder if the mutants back home had any merit to them- save for Fawkes, introduced to her via the wandering teenager that had hailed from the Vault- she'd made it a point to just assume that these mutants were just... different. Tamed by the Brotherhood in an effort to avoid the boys in man-panties, maybe.

As the days progressed and it was clear that their vertibird would be out of commission for quite some time, Sarah, Gallows and Dusk had all found themselves getting more deeply involved in training the recruits living up topside, many of whom took to the newfound leadership with a kind of relief that had seemed a bit... odd. It was clear Sarah and the other Pride members were working them harder than their previous instructors ever had- at least by their own admission, both spoken and non- their unreadiness to deal with relentless PT drills saying enough on its own. They made quick progress under the new tutelage, and the General had been pleased to see it, saying that most of the trainers had to be deployed to the field to take care of both the Legion attacks and the stray ghouls that wandered into Fort Carson; said that often times, the base was lacking decent leadership when it came to the recruits.

Or any leadership at all, Sarah had observed, save the General himself; of the Elders, she hadn't heard a single peep since the negotiations.

However strange, all of those distractions certainly helped keep her mind off of the wait time, but it didn't stop her from being bored out of her mind on her 'off' hours. At that point, the only imperatives she'd been given were to continue learning about their Brothers in the Midwest, and further, to follow up on the elusive contact from the West that the Elder had been so interested in.

The first imperative had seemed to go fairly well for the most part; those times they weren't helping with the Midwest's initiates, they were allowed to observe video feeds of the Fort Carson paladins clashing against packs of the so-called Legionaries. This was all well and good- and it was interesting to see the old world rise to fight so vigorously against the 'new'- but upon observing video feeds of the battlefields at a later date once things had quieted down, it was difficult to see signs of the activity that had taken place, save for the burn scars left behind by energy weapons. The General had again pointed out quarantine measures as the reason, but that as diligent as they were with that sort of thing, there was little reason to be concerned about contracting the disease Jameson had been studying up on.

That, he said, required direct contact with the bloodstream. In most cases.

Later that same night, it was time to act on the secondary imperative the Elder laid out for them: establishing contact with whomever was attempting to communicate with the Citadel. Sarah had initially intended to go on her own, but seeing Jameson pouring somewhat blankly over the archives, she'd opted to ask the older woman to join her- after all, "if it's who we think it is, I'm gonna need all the 'diplomacy' I can get."

Jameson, grateful for the opportunity to put her mind towards something other than biological horror stories and the bizarre history of the Midwestern Brotherhood, had agreed- inwardly promised herself to swear off reading about post-war illnesses for the remainder of the week.

Though hopefully, their transport would be repaired within that time frame.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>It had been nearly two weeks since she'd sent a brief message to the Eastern Brotherhood; the day had started innocuously, with only a few small projects needing to be tackled throughout the morning. Once they'd been accomplished, Veronica found herself going back to the drawing board with ED-E's voice module. The progress she'd made on re-tooling it had been so frustratingly minimal that she'd decided to remove it from the eyebot in an effort to see if the unit had been damaged or if, as she suspected, the programming she'd entered into it had been too hackneyed to work properly. She'd just gotten the small device out of the eyebot when she heard it give off a series of beeps, ones she'd first thought were warnings that she'd done the robot some grievous harm. After a couple repetitions of the pattern came through, however, she was taken aback- long enough to let the series of annoying beeps persist for a bit longer than need be.<p>

A morse request to transmit.

Already tuned to the frequency she'd sent the message to in the first place, she didn't need to check and see who it was that'd finally come calling, immediately using one of the eyebot's dials to accept the call and send along a morse invitation to transmit. After several rounds of morse, consisting mostly of codes used between chapters to verify each others' identities, ones she possessed solely thanks to Kette's ability to wheedle information out of damn near anyone. The verification of each code made Veronica more and more excited, more _nervous_ with each transmission, the eventual request for voice contact answered happily. Sending another invitation to transmit, she turned down the volume of the eyebot's speakers to keep anyone from listening in to her conversation.

"This is Sentinel Lyons of the Citadel," she heard over the eyebot's speaker. "Please identify yourself."

Veronica paused. The name sounded incredibly familiar to her, though it only took her a moment to puzzle out why. As little as the Eastern Brotherhood was mentioned in Western circles, one name had always floated to the top whenever blame was assigned for that particular chapter's defiance of sacred mandates- that of the Elder. Had they ever mentioned a daughter? Or a spouse, maybe?

"This is-" Veronica paused, finding herself uncertain of how to state her identification. She opted for a convenient 'backdating,' in spite of it being a substantial half-truth. "This is Veronica Santangelo. I'm a Journeymen Scribe from the Mojave chapter. "

_Just a little white lie,_ she told herself, _something to get past the red tape..._

"Before you say anything else," the Sentinel said, understandably wary in tone, "just so we're on the same page- if you're looking to make threats-" The channel went silent for a moment, though every once in a while she could hear what sounded suspiciously like bickering in the background. "Just state the purpose of the message," the sender said, then, sounding vaguely put off by whatever had just transpired.

Veronica couldn't help but smile a little. "No threats," she said simply. "And I don't blame you for being suspicious... I just hope it doesn't keep you from taking what I say into consideration."

"I won't make any promises," Lyons said simply.

"I didn't expect you to," Veronica replied, honestly enough. "I'm- actually, I'm not entirely sure of-" _Quit it,_ she chided herself, cutting herself short. _You go that route and they're definitely not going to take you seriously._ "Let me try that again," she said, tone apologetic. "I've known about your chapter for a while- granted, it's from the Lost Hills Elder council, so it's not glowing reviews or anything-"

"It's nothing we don't know already," Lyons replied testily. "Get to the point."

_Alright, then._ "I just want to know the truth," Veronica replied, simply enough. "I wanted to confirm for myself what it is you guys are doing out there."

"What, you mean actually helping people?" Lyons retorted, near-defensive. "I'm not looking to hear lectures on the virtues of xenophobia-"

"-and I'm not looking to give one," Veronica said, cutting the Sentinel off at the pass. "Look... the Brotherhood's in bad shape out here. I've done my best to try and steer them in a better direction, but they're not listening to me. After doing a lot of thinking about it... it occurred to me that a lot of the ideals that made you all outcasts are ones that I share."

Silence. Veronica watched the hovering eyebot silently as she waited for a response, wishing for a moment that the damn thing didn't always look like it was smiling at her. For how nervous she felt, a psychotically happy face was the last thing she wanted to have staring back at her.

"I'm listening," Lyons said eventually, curiosity evident in her tone.

It came as a welcome relief. "It's the reason I asked if what I heard was true- the reason I needed to hear it from you, still need to hear it from you. If it _is_ the truth... I'd like to find a way to join your chapter." She let out a soft, nervous half-chuckle. "Assuming you'll have me."

Another lengthy silence. Then, "I'd need to speak with the Elder," Lyons replied. "Find a way to ensure that this request is the real deal and not some backhanded attempt at undermining us. We have enough problems to deal with back home... the last thing we need is the Lost Hills council sending in a plant for the express purpose of screwing with us."

"I understand." Veronica paused for a moment, furrowing her brow. "Wait a minute- did you say 'back home?' Where are you?"

"You mean you don't know?" Lyons asked, incredulous.

"I-" She felt a stab of anxiety. If she'd messed up the frequency, had she screwed up anything else? "The- information we have on your chapter is really outdated," she said, hoping her feeble explanation wouldn't be met with even more suspicion. "At least- the information lower-ranking members can access is. Most of the official frequencies are kept under wraps by the Elder..." Beat. "Mostly so people like me don't get the bright idea to go and do something seditious like, I don't know... what I'm doing right now."

She heard a faint chuckle from the Sentinel, the sound allowing her to relax a little; it wasn't until her shoulders unknit a little that she realized just how tense she'd become. That tension had swiftly returned the moment she heard a fierce pounding at her door, the frame audibly- visibly- rattled by the force of each impact.

"I can hear you in there!" she heard Keene call from the hallway, the sound of his voice- the vehemence of it- setting her on high alert. "_What are you up to?_"

"Keene-" Marcus's voice, then, undoubtedly trying to diffuse the situation. "I'm only going to warn you once-"

"What was that?" Lyons said over the wire, obscuring the rest of Marcus's words.

"The sound of my luck running out," Veronica said, raising slowly from the floor to reach for the power fist on the night stand, the glove tugged on as quickly as she could manage it. "Can I get back to you at- ah, at zero-six-hundred hours? Same frequency?"

"Sure. Yes." Beat. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"I really hope not," Veronica replied under her breath, terminating the transmission.

The most Veronica could hear of the argument outside her door was muttering, the voices of the two mutants too soft to make much sense of. A long period of silence was soon to follow, the sound of departing footsteps doing little to quell her uncertainties. The defensive posture she'd taken upon seeing the door crack open was proof enough of how ready she was for an all-out fight, though she dropped it the moment she saw Marcus step over the threshold.

"We need to talk," was all he said, his expression proving him to be less than pleased.

With what, she wasn't sure- though she'd soon discover that she was a central contributor to his decidedly... unhappy mood.

The _why_, well... that would come as its own kind of unwanted surprise.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Sitting back in her chair and looking blankly at the receiver, Sarah peered at the radio incredulously, not entirely certain of how to interpret what had just occurred. On one hand, it was a pleasant surprise if indeed the call hadn't been made on false pretenses, but the tidbits of information, the abrupt way it cut off-<p>

"What do you suppose that was all about?" Jameson wondered allowed from over Sarah's shoulder, the scribe still leaning over the back of the chair the younger woman was seated on.

Sarah let out a faint chuckle. "Which part?"

Jameson met the Sentinel's gaze to offer her an equally wan smile. "A fair question," she allowed, straightening. "Do you really think it's a ruse? The request, I mean?"

"I'm not sure," Sarah said, shrugging. "Seems like a long way to go to screw with us- but maybe not." She paused to consider, tapping her index finger against her bottom lip. "If the west _is_ looking to pick a fight with us-"

Silence.

"Was there a conclusion to that by any chance?" Jameson asked after a lengthy pause.

"Yeah... I was just thinking. We've known for a while now that the Outcasts are looking to reconnect with the Elder Council," Sarah replied. "It's possible they found a way."

"I don't follow."

"Better you didn't," Sarah said. "It's just a hypothetical. They don't have the resources to pull off anything too extravagant."

Though she didn't look like she _wanted_ to hear more, Jameson was curious all the same. "Go on."

"Well... Hypothetically speaking- say this is the beginning of a coup."

Jameson arched her eyebrows. "That's quite a leap."

"I did say it was hypothetical," Sarah reminded her. "Do you want to hear it or don't you?"

"Please," Jameson said, "continue. I'm quite curious to see where this paranoid fantasy is going."

Sarah shot her a wearied look, but obliged the older woman all the same. "So say it's a coup," she repeated. "A chance for the west to gain a foothold in the region. They'd want it to start quietly. Figure out who among the Citadel still wonder if the Outcasts had the right idea, see who they can count on to fight for them when the time came... So a little divide and conquer, some creative sabotage... they'd be well on their way to making sure they could engage us with minimal casualties."

Jameson arched an eyebrow. "That seems oddly precise," she observed.

Sarah chuckled. "It's what _I'd_ do," she said, shrugging. "Assuming I was the one calling the shots."

"I'm just- surprised at how quickly these things come to you," Jameson remarked. "I'm not sure if I should be impressed, or legitimately concerned for your psychological well-being."

"Heh..." Sarah offered Jameson a wry smile. "Maybe a little bit of both."

"Either way," Jameson said, "I'd recommend some downtime for you and your squad when we return just to take your mind off of tactical assaults... but I suspect the _lack_ of seeing regular combat has only exacerbated that tendency..."

"Probably," Sarah admitted, letting out a light sigh. "I could use something to occupy my time when I'm not helping out with recruits."

"There's plenty to read around here," Jameson suggested. "It's an outlandish idea, I know, putting your mind to use for something other than war games. And it could be a long shot but maybe, just maybe- studying up on history and diplomacy could give you the skills you need to carry out future negotiations without requiring my assistance."

"And miss the pleasure of your company?" Sarah replied sarcastically. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Jameson smirked, head canting to one side. "Is it insubordinate to call a Sentinel a smart ass?"

"No," Sarah said, grinning back at the Scribe, "but you'll wanna pick your moments with that." Her expression sobered, eyes turning back to the radio. "Honestly, though?" she said, leaning back in her chair, "even if I did find something interesting to read- I repeat, _interesting-_" she afforded Jameson a wry smile, "I'd still be going stir crazy. I don't think I've been this bored in-" she furrowed her brow, considering. "I don't think I've ever been this bored _period._"

"Poor thing," Jameson said, grinning broadly, "forced into a grueling regimen of rest and relaxation with nary a skirmish in sight."

The two exchanged a brief look, Sarah's pointed stare met with an amused smirk from the scribe. "None worth mentioning, anyway," she muttered. "Things got real quiet real fast..."

"I noticed that," Jameson said, glancing towards one of the terminals in the room. "Seems a little odd..."

"They did say the Legion was starting to get a little desperate," Sarah reminded her. "But you're right... it _is_ odd." She paused, not entirely sure what to remark on from there; a lot about the place was odd, saying nothing of the General himself. Shrugging, she leaned back in her chair, gesturing to the radio to say, "At least this whole... _thing_ gives me something I can focus on for a little while." Beat. "And speaking of... I need to call this in to the Citadel. Let them know we figured out what that signal was all about."

Jameson nodded, remaining where she was as Sarah sent a signal to the Citadel, the two waiting for a time for the transmission to be received. Once the necessary codes had been transmitted, the morse invitation to open a voice channel came through.

"This is Sentinel Lyons," Sarah said into the receiver. "I need to speak to the Elder."

"Of course," she heard Rothchild reply.

Silence.

"Sarah," the Elder said eventually. "You're not scheduled to check in for a couple more days. Is something the matter?"

"No, thankfully," Sarah replied. "I just need to talk to you about that call you asked me to follow up on."

"Ah yes. I've been wondering if there'd been any progress on it."

"The line's activity seems intermittent at best," Sarah said. "We'd been trying for the past couple days to reach it but it hadn't been receiving."

"And once you managed to make contact...?"

"Well..." Sarah paused, letting out a faint chuckle. "I'm not really sure what to make of it, honestly. It was coming from a Journeymen Scribe of the Mojave Chapter... she claims she wants to see if it's possible to join our ranks."

"I see. And did she happen to give you her name?"

"Yeah. It was- ah..."

"Veronica," Jameson informed Sarah in a hushed voice.

Sarah nodded. "Right- Veronica... Santangelo, I think?"

"Interesting," the Elder replied, tone- oddly pleased. "I was curious to see if that call would come through."

"Er..." Sarah paused, incredulous. "You were?"

"Yes. Some time ago, I received a communique from an old friend... they said I should expect someone by that name to make contact with us."

"An old friend?" Sarah and Jameson exchanged a confused glance. "Who?" Met with silence, the Sentinel furrowed her brow and said, "Can't you at least give me a hint?"

"I think 'old friend' should suffice for now," the Elder replied, audibly amused.

"That- tells me nothing," Sarah said frustratedly, glancing back at Jameson, the scribe spreading her hands and shrugging in response. "But if that's all you can say about it-"

"-It is."

That was that, apparently. Sarah frowned. "So..." she said, "whoever it is... they said that she was trustworthy?"

"Indeed," the Elder said, elegantly side-stepping any use of telling pronouns. "Trustworthy, hard-working... possesses all the skills and training we've been in great need of for some time."

It didn't need to be said; more initiates went on to become part of the ground forces, the need for able-bodied men and women out in the ruins placing a higher priority on combat rather than scientific expertise. Anyone who already had the training and had someone to vouch for them...

Sarah muttered something under her breath, raising her hand to rub her eyes before saying, "What do you propose we do about her, then?" her hand lowering to eye the radio balefully. "It sounded like she might be in a little trouble by the time the transmission ended."

The Elder paused- to consider, undoubtedly. "Then we should do our best to move quickly," he said finally. "Under the circumstances, I'd say it might be best if you remained where you are until you get a better idea of the situation."

Sarah stared at the radio, resisting the urge to say something far more colorful than "Stay in the Midwest? Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"But-"

"Things have been quieter than usual around here," the Elder went on to say. "We can spare you for a little while longer, and you're already quite close to her location. Having you return here only to head back out seems like a needless waste of resources... wouldn't you say?"

"Well... Yeah, but...?" Incredulous, Sarah asked, "All this for one woman?" her irritation plain in her voice. "We don't even know what kind of trouble she's in. We don't know what the hell we'll be walking into."

"Then I suggest you get as much information from her as you're able," the Elder advised. Getting no immediate response, he went on to say, "I know it seems out of the ordinary," he said, "but the request to have her flown in comes from someone who did me a great favor in the past. One that even this gesture doesn't begin to repay." Beat. "All that aside, have you anything else to report?"

"No, father."

"Then you have your orders," the elder said, with some finality. "Take care, Sarah."

"You, too," the Sentinel sighed, leaning back in her chair as the connection terminated. "And let's hope she's worth it," she muttered. "Must be one hell of a favor this guy did, if this is only a 'small' repayment."

"I'll say," Jameson remarked, brow furrowing.

"I guess we'll find out who it is soon enough," Sarah said, shrugging listlessly, her arms crossing over her chest.

Jameson _hmm_'d contemplatively, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I guess we will."


	13. No Wonder I'm Single

This is the part I swore would make people go 'and I'm done.'

It's been coined 'the strip-fight' for a reason.

* * *

><p>[ 19 :: No Wonder I'm Single ]<p>

* * *

><p>"... hm."<p>

Veronica looked down at an opened tin of Cram apprehensively, the smell and appearance of the contents making her think twice about actually eating it. Or eating ever again, for that matter.

"ED-E," she said, turning to the hovering eyebot, "come here for a second."

"**I don't care how much you bribe me,**" ED-E replied in a usual non-sequitor, happily usurping Marcus's voice, "**I'm not saying 'junk in the trunk.'**"

Veronica grinned lopsidedly; some of those never got old. "How about starting a recording?"

The eyebot emitted a series of beeps and tones. It gave her the go ahead by announcing, "**This is stupid.**"

It's what she got for reinstalling the voice module; she couldn't say she didn't know what she was getting into.

Sighing, Veronica merely shook her head. "Well, stupid or not," she said, "you're just gonna have to live with it." She cleared her throat, eyeing the can of food in her hand. "So..." she began, "What's the date today?" Beat. "Eh. Don't care. Moving on... Do you ever wonder why the heck they decided on the name 'Cram' for a tin of meat?" She paused to pick at the contents with the fork she'd been given, curling her lip at the squishing sound it made. "I guess it's cause it's just sorta crammed in there," she muttered under her breath. "Or," she said, voice getting a little louder, "maybe it's one of those stupid advertising angles. You know, something like... 'cram: for when you really need to cram some food into your busy schedule,' or, 'Cram: tin cans bursting with meat.'" She paused, quirking her lip again. "Ew. Nevermind. I don't think that'd sell well. Still, 'cram' doesn't really sound like something people should be consuming, does it?

"It sounds more like the name of a New Reno porn star," she went on to say, raising a fork-full of what claimed to be meat partway up to her face. "A really bad one." Turning the fork over, she let the meat plop back into the can with a wet, apologetic slap. "The kind that makes you want to dunk your head in boiling water. Not that I've watched any New Reno porn- or... you know, ever been to New Reno in the first place. I'm just making an educated guess on this one."

Beat.

"Actually," she raised the can, looking for the sell-by date, "come to think of it, I'd be curious to know whats gives it such a long shelf-life. Personally, I'm willing to say it's a mix of gene-mangling preservatives, a healthy dose of plastic, and a little wishful thinking for good measure. Throw in a few Satanic rituals through the packaging process and _voila._ Your meat-like food-stuff is ready for the open markets of eternity. Ah. See? Well... this is audio-only so I guess you can't see. But it says here that the sell-by date is... April 8th, 2077."

_Yikes._

"So anyway... I've seen what happens when someone gets their hands on a rotten batch. Kette ate a tin that hadn't been sealed correctly- no, that sounds wrong. She didn't eat the actual tin, just... you know what i mean. Anyway, she got violently ill about... I wanna say an hour after she ate it. She claims the vendor she got it from had it out for her anyway, that they deliberately put something in it to make her sick. I'm not sure if that's true, but... on the off-chance it is, I really have to wonder what she did to piss those people off in the first place. She was a complete mess for at least a day, there. Kept retching every five minutes; her stomach didn't care that it had nothing left in it to hork up. The way she was dry-heaving, it was like her innards were ready to cut their losses and abandon ship. That was, in fact, the most vomit I've ever witnessed. And I've been to the Strip now, so I've seen a lot of impressive twists on that theme. Nothing like this, though.

"...And, uh... hmn." She furrowed her brow. "Okay... how did I get on this subject, again?"

She looked down at the contents of the can again. _Doesn't seem quite as appetizing now, does it?_ "Oh..." _Duh._ "Oh, right! Cram. I was talking about-" Pause. "...Why was I talking about cram? ...A little hamhanded avoidance, maybe. ...Heh! See what I did there? Ham? Cr-" ... "Oh, forget it. I don't know who I'm 'hamming' it up for anyway... heh... I'm just... trying to keep my mind off of what's been going on lately." The goofy smile on her face faded suddenly as she considered what she'd just said. In the end, she raised her free hand to palm her face, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh.

"... 'hamming it up,'" she said under her breath. "Dear god... no wonder I'm single."

_And what was that about avoidance, again?_

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>"We need to talk," Marcus said, closing the door to her bedroom behind him.<p>

_That's not a happy face._ "About what?" Veronica asked, glancing towards the door apprehensively. "What was all that about?"

"Hopefully nothing." Marcus glanced at ED-E, waiting for the eyebot to add its own two cents. When it didn't- "Awfully quiet," he said, turning his attention back to her. "It's a definite improvement, so far as I'm concerned."

Veronica smiled half-heartedly, still a little bemused by the rather dramatic entrance. "It's not its fault I'm a lousy programmer," she said, shrugging. "Well... I didn't used to think I was, but this Enclave tech is harder to work with than I thought. I removed the voice module to see if I could make a few tweaks to it..." Beat. "But... you didn't come here to talk about ED-E."

"No." He paused to watch her carefully. "It's Keene."

"That much I figured."

"And," he added, "these broadcasts you've been sending."

"Oh... It's not broadcasts, it's- nothing, really. Just... getting in touch with some old friends." _That's ... half-true, at least._

"It'd help if you were more specific," he said, tone carrying with it an unspoken warning: probably not the best time to test his patience.

"Why is it important?" she asked. When she got no response, just a patented Marcus-look, she said, "I'm not trying to be difficult," in her own defense, "I'm really not. Those radio conversations-" she paused. "I was planning on telling you about them eventually, just not... anytime soon." She smiled weakly, her eyes turned down towards her fidgeting hands.

"Doesn't have anything to do with the NCR, does it?"

Veronica looked back up immediately at the question, eyebrows raised. "No?" She restrained a short laugh but had little success on taming her incredulous smile. "Why would it?" When he just looked at her carefully, she knew he was sizing her up- trying to tell if she was lying. Her smile faded once she realized that was the case. "Marcus?" she prompted him. "You don't seriously think that-"

"No," Marcus said, giving a brief shake of his head. "But Keene does. And that's the problem."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>The can of faux-food sat on the nightstand, untouched, and it was likely to stay that way.<p>

Pausing to collect her thoughts on what the old mutant had told her, the scribe had her hands clasped in front of her, forefingers steepled to occasionally tap against each other, her elbows resting against her upturned knees.

"From what Marcus said," Veronica continued, brow furrowed, "it sounds like we might be running into trouble with the NCR- Keene and some of the others are saying that they've spotted a couple of their scouting parties skulking around. Sounds like they're difficult to spot by day, but they get a little bolder at night. One of the guards that stands out by the entrance- not one of the nightkin, just one of the regular grunts you see wandering around here- he said he smelled them. I'll never get over that, by the way... that sense of smell thing." She smirked. "There's a story about that," she said, glancing up at ED-E as if expecting it to make some kind of expression or give some kind of response, "but..." Unlacing her fingers, she gave a dismissive wave of one of her hands. "Now's not really the time to go into it," she said, sighing.

"Anyway, I... don't really blame Marcus for wondering if maybe I had something to do with the scouting parties. I'd told him about Colonel Moore's offer, back when I was first settling in..." He'd asked if she really had exhausted all her options for remaining with her friends, and she'd told him she might have blew it on her only opportunity to do so- he hadn't said much in return. "I think he just assumes I'm looking to be back with my own kind," she said after a brief silence. "Which... if I'm gonna be honest about it, it's not that big a leap, really. I _do_ miss being around people... _human_ people, I mean. I miss-"

Kette. Cass. People she didn't have the luxury of putting too much thought into presently, lest she wax nostalgic. There were plenty of other weighted topics to consider, the NCR but one of them.

"I'd miss people here, too," she said, then, staring off towards the window- oddly relieved to see snow beginning to fall.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>"Lily's condition," Marcus told her, "it's improved a lot since you've been here. Don't know if you realize."<p>

"I noticed she's been talking to Leo a lot less," Veronica admitted, feeling a brief pang of guilt. "I thought that was just the medication."

"If she weren't taking half-doses," he said, "I'd agree."

"She is?"

"I don't encourage it... but it's her decision, not mine." Beat. "Having you around's given her something to focus on. Lets her keep it together. I'm concerned about what might happen if you left."

"So much for 'not guilting,'" Veronica murmured under her breath, though her tone stayed somewhat good-natured.

"It's worth saying," was all he offered, with no apology to follow.

Funny how four syllables could carry so much implication.

Veronica frowned, eyes turning down towards the ground as she sat down on the edge of her bed. "What do you think might happen?" she asked, returning her gaze to Marcus.

"Nothing immediate," Marcus said. "But probably nothing good, in the long run."

Just like her last so-called home, there were certain things she just couldn't get around. For a time, she couldn't help but rebuke herself for being selfish; she hadn't even thought of the impact her possible departure might have on Lily.

"No matter which way it goes," she said after a brief silence, "it's not like this is an easy decision for me. Hasn't really been that long but- I'd really miss this place if I had to leave."

"No one's saying you have to."

"Except Keene."

"-Except Keene," he granted her.

"And I'm willing to bet he plans to tell me the good news with a sucker-punch to the back of the head," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Maybe a little curbstomping for good measure."

"Is that your only problem?"

_Funny how he makes no attempt to tell me I'm wrong. Real encouraging, there, buddy._

"Honestly?" Veronica shrugged, keeping her initial thoughts to herself. "Sure, I could stand to have a few more humans here... for a variety of reasons." She chuckled. "I already knew my romantic life was a dead-end road, but wow. That's taken on a whole new meaning up here. My chances of finding a girlfriend have always been slim to laughable under the best of circumstances. Here, though... the chances of finding one that _doesn't_ look like a man? Not just masculine but like an honest-to-god man? Not too good. Next to nothing, I'd say." She grinned a little. "Sally's good people, great gal to talk shop with if you're into tanning hides and finding new, inventive uses for internal organs, bu~ut... it's not really a look I'm into. Heh... for the longest time I thought people were calling her 'Sally' as a joke. I didn't realize she was actually, you know..."

"Female?"

"Yeah." Sure, Lily was more or less the same, but- she'd been told from the get-go that Lily's gender was a little confusing. "But..." she said, getting back on track, "my point with all this is that... even without the comforts of 'home,' whatever that was... I feel like I've got a shot at a good life around here. Or I would if Keene and his cronies weren't looking to disembowel me."

_Or wear my arms on a charm bracelet... thank you, Cass._ "I really like the work I've been doing... Calamity's good company, Raul's a great teacher and an even better student... And then there's Toot-"

Marcus laughed. The sound made Veronica jump; it was such a rarity to hear him let out so much as a hearty guffaw that it came as a genuine surprise.

"His name's 'Tooth,'" Marcus informed her once he'd recovered.

Sheepish, Veronica blushed, her eyes turning to the floor. "The way he says it, it sounds like 'Toot.' Must be the vices..." Beat. "Always thought that was a pretty funny name for a mutant. Then again... so do Sally and Lily, so I guess there's room for more of the same."

"His name's actually Bruce," Marcus said, returning her smile with a subtle one of his own. "But he prefers 'Tooth.'"

"He _prefers_ Tooth? Wow..." Veronica chuckled. "Think he'd mind if I called him 'Jaw?' Or 'Molar?'"

"You got away with calling him 'Toot,' didn't you?"

Veronica laughed. "Maybe I should just stick with that."

"So what about him?"

"You mean besides his name?" Veronica grinned lopsidedly. "Well... the other day, he said I looked grumpy. Said he knew one surefire way to 'cure the grumpies' ...and that was hunting."

"How'd that go?"

"Not that great," Veronica admitted. "First I couldn't keep up, so he decided to have me climb up on to his shoulders. Which would've been fun if he hadn't run me into every single tree branch on the mountainside. I'm lucky I didn't get a concussion." She shook her head. "Maybe next time I'll get the hang of it."

"Next time." Marcus paused, watching her quietly. "Suppose the Brotherhood gets back to you. Will there still be a next time?"

"I..." It was worth considering; the hint of possible acceptance in the Sentinel's voice had made her almost... giddy, even if nothing had been made certain. "I don't know," she said. "The Brotherhood's the only family I've ever known. Leaving them- maybe it was for the better, but... in a lot of ways, it still feels like a big mistake."

"You've only been here a couple months now," Marcus said. "Nearly three. Might help if you gave it some time. Might not." He shrugged. "Even Jacob had his moments. Didn't happen often, but when it did, you could tell he felt like something was missing."

"Jacob?" Veronica raised an eyebrow, looking at the old mutant curiously. "Is that the guy you knew from the Brotherhood?"

Marcus nodded.

And then it clicked: _Jacobstown_. Noting the look of realization in her eyes, Marcus's own heavy brows lifted slightly, offering his own unspoken confirmation of the tidbit she'd alighted upon.

"You named this town after him," she said, a statement rather than a question.

"He was a good friend." Simple as that.

The hints of a smile were slow to her features, and they didn't get much more noticeable than that. It was surprising to hear that a mutant had put such stock in a member of the Brotherhood, former or no. It was- actually pretty touching, but then Marcus went and upped the ante.

"Taking you in," he went on to say, trailing off for a moment. "In a lot of ways... felt like I was doing it for him. Taking care of one of his own, the way he did for some of the mutants who helped us form Broken Hills. Thought naming the town after him would be its own kind of repayment... and it was. ...Then you showed up. Got me thinking." He paused, considerate. Then, "Lily was a part of getting you in here, but Jacob... Jacob was the deciding vote on whether or not it was worth taking the chance." Beat. "Seems like something he would've appreciated."

His voice may have been stoic, but the sheer sentimentality expressed in those words- Veronica felt perilously close to have a 'girl moment.' She could have said she wasn't familiar with the name of the settlement, breezed right past it, but instead, she found herself unable to do anything but sit there in stunned silence.

"That's really sweet." A stupid thing to say, she knew, but little else had sprung to mind.

He gave her a wry look and an easy, downplayed smile. "If you decide to go your own way," he said, "then you should. Just realize- lot of folks here have come to like you."

More implication. But that time it was glaringly obvious: they'd miss her.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>She smiled absently, leaning forward to rest her chin against the heel of her palm. "I got a little misty-eyed after that," she said, letting out a self-effacing sigh. "Couldn't help it. I felt a little guilty for being so enthused about the call I got from the East... felt like maybe I'd been so wrapped up in the thing with Keene that I didn't notice how much I'd gotten to like all the other people here. And here Mount Stoic was telling me he'd miss me if I was gone..."<p>

Beat.

"I'm getting off-track again," she murmured, largely for her own benefit, hands dropping into her lap.

"It just bothers me, you know?" she continued, shaking her head. "Those NCR scouting parties... no one can figure out _why_ they're here, or what they're trying to do, exactly... but speaking from experience, the simple answer is, 'nothing good.'" She snorted. "Thank you, Occam's Razor," she said under her breath. "Almost seems like a cruel joke that they're still finding ways to upend my life, but... that's their MO, isn't it?" Beat. "That's only part of it, though... the thing that gets me about all of this, is that Keene..." She chuckled again. "God, Keene. If it weren't for him, I'd really like it up here. But the guy's really just got it out for me.

"I know what you're thinking. Keene? Quiet, thoughtful, loveable Keene, jumping to nutty conclusions? So paranoid that he's trying to blame _me_ for all this? Perish the thought. I _had_ to have done something to piss him off... I mean, he's the definition of rational thought, right?" Beat. "Maybe it's because of my face or something," she muttered. "Keene doesn't approve of my face, ergo, I'm obviously pen-pals with the NCR. ...Jackass.

"Lily swears he's alright, that he just takes some getting used to... and maybe that's true, but to me? He's gone from being frustrating to- I think 'scary' is the most appropriate word for it." Yeah... 'scary' was certainly a better fit; the mutant commanded his own small brigade, and while she was sure she could fend for herself against a single Nightkin, maybe two... an entire group of them was another story. Shaking her head, she decided to continue rather than dwell on the possibility. "About a week ago," she said, the eyebot edging in closer to get a better read on her voice, "he started getting more agitated around me, and tonight, well. Like I said, he thinks I'm the one responsible for bringing the NCR up here. Marcus seems to think he's taking it out on me because he's scared."

She snorted, a rueful, disbelieving smile on her face. "Yeah, right," she muttered. "I don't think Keene's capable of being scared." Pausing, her smile waned slowly, a pointed thought crossing her mind as she considered those words: _maybe that's why he doesn't like you._

"No, that's... that's not true," she said, then, sighing. "And even if he _was_ Mr. Impervious... I have to keep reminding myself that he _is_ schizophrenic. Calamity's told me a little bit about what that's all about since... I only had a vague understanding of it in the first place. Abnormal psyche isn't a regular topic of study in the Brotherhood's curriculum." Her smile returned, turning rueful again. "Hell, maybe if it had been... Father Elijah wouldn't have gotten as far as he did." She turned her eyes down to the floor, frowning. Not really a topic she wanted to think about. "Keene, though," she sighed, attempting to get back on topic, "I really don't know what to do about-"

There was no chance to finish; as if summoned by her desire to find some closure to the situation, there was Keene, seething mad, the proud slayer of wooden doors. The sound of splintering wood and fracturing locks had been enough to startle her, but the Nightkin's appearance in her doorway put the adrenaline rush right over the edge. He advanced, eyeing her coldly.

"_You_."

That one spoken word had enough hate in it to topple entire nations.

Seeing Keene advance, Veronica didn't hesitate to make a grab for her discarded power fist, though she hadn't been quick enough to dodge away from the mutant's attempt to slap it out of her hands. The gauntlet skittered across the floor, the attack prompting ED-E to cease its recording and go on defense. It fired a warning shot first- or what ended up being a warning shot, its first attempt to land a hit missing by a wide margin, the laser fire leaving a burn mark on the floor. Keene advanced on it as it adjusted its aim.

"**Make me happy,**" the eyebot 'said' flatly.

It fired another shot before Keene got too close, scoring the mutant's shoulder with a burst of laser fire. Veronica winced. The only positive thing about _that_ was, well- at least it's combat phrases were working okay.

"_Stop_," she barked at it. "Keene, what the hell do you-"

Too late. The Nightkin had seized the eyebot from the air by its cannon.

"**Oh,**" said ED-E.

His momentary distraction spurring Veronica into motion, the scribe making a haphazard dive for her gauntlet before she could be intercepted. She'd barely gotten her hands on it when the sound of metal being yanked apart was followed by a rush of air and a _whoosh_ing sound overhead, the eyebot's cannon shattering the window and sailing off to freedom. The eyebot itself, she saw upon glancing in Keene's direction, would soon follow in its cannon's wake, and she was right in its intended trajectory. Dodging out of the way as quickly as she was able upon seeing ED-E get launched in her direction- an impressive feat, really- Veronica just barely managed to avoid getting clobbered by the robot's considerable bulk- didn't matter how often she called it 'little.' That thing was big- and surprisingly heavy.

Playing back an underwhelmed "**Hamburger**" as it went careening past the scribe, ED-E exemplified its not-so-dainty-ness with the damage it did to one of the large racks of ham radios upon impact.

Some of the equipment was reduced to a spray of mechanical shrapnel, shards flying every which-way, the eyebot falling to the wooden floor with a loud _clang_, briefly blotting out the lunatic wind chime patter of debris, the rickety metal shelving the radios had sat upon capsizing onto the bed.

A series of beeps and a hiss of static emanated from the trapped robot's speaker, signaling that it was definitely down for the count.

Backpedaling a couple steps once she'd retrieved and equipped her power fist, Veronica was none-too-happy to find herself confronted with yet _another_ obstacle.

Namely: a very large body behind her.

"I _knew_ you were behind this!" Keene howled at her as he advanced, the Nightkin behind her- there were two of them, she saw... no, three members of the Keene posse that had caught up to their head honcho- lashing out a hand to catch hold of her. "_You_ called them in- you brought _him_ back. _Why?_"

All around: it was bad. Very bad. And _where the hell was Marcus_, anyway?

While Veronica realized "What are you talking about?" probably wasn't the best thing to say, making attempts to put some distance between herself and the grabby Nightkin wasn't exactly conducive to being articulate.

Finally shaking the brute off and scrambling back towards her bed, Veronica just barely managed to evade the swipe Keene made at her- but unfortunately for her, his second attempt found purchase. He seized her shirt by the collar and drew her towards him, sneering at her in such a way that she itched to lash out at him, knock that look straight off his face- and maybe make him eat his teeth for good measure. _Bad idea,_ she tried to tell herself, _don't hit back unless you have to,_ hastily searching for some indication from Keene that he planned to follow the grab up with an outright attack.

"You called the NCR," Keene snarled at her, drawing her in close enough so that his face was mere inches away from her own. "They've posted eyes and ears _everywhere_- faces- watching us, watching the town, all because of _you!_ You called them. I _heard you!_ _They_ heard you!"

"Oh, great," Veronica said, voice hoarse, winded, "so _all_ of you camped outside my door? Haven't you ever heard of a little thing called privacy?"

"Idiot," Keene hissed, a couple peculiar beeps coming from the eyebot as it attempted to react to the trigger. "You _have_ no privacy- you gave it away when you chose to stay here."

Veronica squinted at him, confounded. "What? Are you kidding? I didn't ask to have a troupe of giant blue-"

"_Not them_," Keene interrupted her. "It's those _radios_- they listen- they can hear you just as well as I can."

"Isn't that the point?" she retorted, flustered. "Look-" she said over erratic patches of static blurting from the downed robot, "I wasn't calling the NCR. Marcus told me there were scouts prowling around, but _I was not_ the one who sent them! I'm not responsible for this."

"Don't lie to me, _meatbag,_" Keene warned her, still seeming to believe that the insult actually had an impact. "Even now that worthless machine of yours is trying to send for help-" His eyes went wide as his anger amplified, lips curling upwards in an intensified snarl- all thanks to the look Veronica got as she realized, suddenly, that he was shaking. "_Stop it!_" he shouted into her face, "_stop looking at me like that!_" jostling her harshly to punctuate his point.

Disoriented by the rough handling, she still turned her head abruptly in spite of her instinct to stare back, but even in her obedience- or more correctly, because of the _necessity_ of it- her desire to fight back was becoming harder to deny.

"It's hard not to when you're breathing right in my face!" she protested, once she got her bearings straight. "Now just _listen_ to me for a second. It's alright to be scared, but-"

Oh, he didn't like that; no, sir, he didn't like that one bit. "_SHUT UP!_" he howled at her, "I've heard all I need to hear!"

Exasperated, dizzied, and nearly ready to go against the constant reminders she had running through her head- _for God's sakes, do NOT hit him_- she said, "You're going to listen anyway! I even _think_ about contacting their military and-"

"You did more than think about it!" Keene said accusingly. "You _did it_. Their bloodhounds are _everywhere_. I've seen them- _smelled_ them. And I've heard _you_- speak quietly to them on nights you think we're not listening."

Letting out a frustrated sound, halfway between a groan and a growl, Veronica said, "And here we are back again!" her tone scathing. She tried to tug away from his grip on her, but found herself held fast, his grip tightening to compensate for her struggling. "Dammit, Keene, you're too smart to act this _stupid-_"

"Don't talk to me like that," he snarled, pulling her in close again. "You've mocked me _enough_, made _light_ of what we have to deal with, _laugh at us_-"

"I never mocked you!" Veronica shouted at him, turning to look him in the eyes, entirely too flustered to keep a level head. "At this point I'm honestly wondering why I haven't! If this is the crap I have to put up with, I think I deserve to. I've done _nothing_ but try to be mindful of _your_ stupid insecurities ever since I got here, and _all you can do-_"

He pushed her hard enough against the wall to stifle her breath for a moment, a choked gasp coming out in place of words.

"You have _no idea_ how it feels, human!" he bellowed, infuriated by the display of her own temper. "_No idea_! Your kind _never does!_"

"I've _tried_-" she attempted to choke out, but he cut her off a second time.

"All _you've_ tried to do is conspire with all the other apes out there to have us slaughtered!"

"No, I haven't!" Veronica protested, voice hoarse from the winding hit. "That's all in your head, Keene-" Even as she said it, she knew it had been a bad idea to do so.

But then- an interruption.

"Marcus is coming!" she heard one of the Nightkin say. "Keene, he's-"

"I heard you!" the Nightkin leader snapped over his shoulder.

Keene's attention was diverted for long enough to allow Veronica to swat his arm away with the help of her power fist, the blow hitting his wrist hard enough to shake him off of her, her body dropped to the floor at his feet. Keene recoiled briefly, but she knew she'd be back in his grasp in no time if she couldn't find a way to effectively defend herself... not without causing any grievous harm- or having any grievous harm be done to her. Raising to her feet and practically vaulting over the bed and the metal debris that covered it to escape another one of his attempts to grab hold of her, Veronica did her best to catch her breath, staring at Keene with a dumbfounded expression on her face. The obstacle course of shelving and mechanical parts would hold him off for a little while longer, but not by much.

"What will it take to get you to listen to me?" she said through panted breaths, exasperated. "What'll make you stop acting like you're looking to rip out my lungs and use them as water wings?"

"Until you know what it's like to live as we have," Keene growled, slowly pacing around the far corner of the bed like a restless tiger, "there's little you can say that's worth hearing."

_Prove I know what it's like. How the hell does he propose I do that?_

She grit her teeth. In a word: _FUCK!_ Repeat ad nauseum.

The closer he got, the more frantically Veronica began to wrack her brain for ideas, her every glance towards possible escape routes yielding some new indication that she had effectively cornered herself- not that she had much choice. The shelving, the radio, ED-E's inert bulk- none of it would hold him at bay indefinitely; he could climb over it easily, with only a few abrasions to speak of for his trouble. At her wits end and desperate to keep from inciting an all-out bloodbath in her own living quarters, she was all but convinced that it would be her only option.

Attack, the Nightkin turn on her. Defend herself, the Nightkin turn on her. Do nothing, the Nightkin turn on her. The lack of options had already been driving her up the wall prior to all this, but now, she felt like Keene's wellspring of crazy was starting to affect her as much as it was affecting him. Which strangely- afforded her an idea.

It was a really horrible idea, granted, but it _was_ an idea.

_Crazy,_ she thought bitterly, _meet Crazy._

"You want me to know what it's like?" Veronica said suddenly, looking at Keene pointedly. "Tell me what it's like."

"You wouldn't understand," he informed her angrily. "You never would. That exposure, that constant feeling of eyes raking over you. Hearing things you never should, having _impulses_ you don't want- and now you... _You've_ made us vulnerable to our enemies! We're out in the open, unable to-"

"For the last time," Veronica interrupted him, "_No I haven't._"

He stopped when she took off her power fist and started to tug at the sash cinching the waist of her tunic, pulling it free.

"And for your information?" she added. "Staring at me every time I come into the lodge, _sneering_ at me, talking amongst yourselves about me and _threatening me_-" She paused to pull her tunic off over her head, muttering obscenities upon getting temporarily entangled in the material. Once free, she said, "I think I have a damn good idea of what it's like. You may as well be the voices in my head. _All_ of you."

And as if the Nightkin present hadn't been confused enough, her decision to throw heavy brown cloth directly at Keene's face was sure to do the trick.

"But you want _exposure_, right?" she snapped, voice raising in volume. "You want me to feel _more_ vulnerable than I do already? _Fine._" She wrestled with the layer of armor plating beneath the lighter cover of the discarded tunic, "Let's go with that," the heavy garment dropped to the side instead of thrown at him, largely in favor of going immediately for her belt. "Have it your way. If it spares me from being chucked out a window or smeared all over the front lawn, I'm all for it!"

"Keene!" she heard Marcus shout, the old mutant muscling past the assembled posse to see the scribe's pants drop to her ankles- and, much like Keene, stopped completely short, right in time to hear the dull _thwap_ of the garment hitting the confounded Nightkin in the chest. Everyone stood there in complete silence, utterly dumbfounded as they watched the exasperated young woman struggle to get out of her clothing.

"This is outrageous," Keene said after a moment's pause, seeming to come out of his daze little by little, even as she insisted on upping the ante.

"Only because you made it outrageous," she retorted, pulling her undershirt up over her head and throwing it at Keene, the material swatted away before it could hit him. "You wanted me to 'get it' Keene. This is me _getting it_. Alright? So... you said something about being mocked? Feel like making a few jokes at my expense so it makes you feel better? Come on, big man, I can take it. Gawk and stare and make as many wisecracks as you please- I'll even-"

She was interrupted by a series of beeps coming from the fallen eye-bot before it blurted out, "**What the hell does** _tin cans bursting with_ **Punch you in the teeth!** -" the sudden flurry of gibberish shifting in speed and octave.

"Uh- Veronica-" Marcus said, glancing towards the eyebot briefly before slowly starting to advance in her direction. "Maybe you should calm down-"

"-_dunk-dunk-dunk your head in_- **spit on this thing**-"

For better or for worse, ED-E's stream of idiot bleating was going a long way to throw the scribe off-track.

"Maybe-" She paused abruptly, letting out a light snort as she attempted to control oncoming laughter. Clearing her throat, she sobered as best she could, lending her voice weight to say, "Maybe you should back off," to the old mutant, regaining some lost momentum.

"-_wow_ **Idiot- Make-make me** _innards_-"

This time, Veronica let out an outright guffaw, though she regained her composure enough to reach her hands behind her back, searching for the clasp of her bra.

Clearing her throat again, she said, "You missed it Marcus," her eyes set on the Nightkin leader, "Keene wants me to know what it's like to have full exposure. What it's-"

"_...wonder what she did to- dry-heaving- wishful_ **Hamburger** _stomach*thinking-_"

She let out another short laugh, unable to help herself, the sound jangled; the whole ridiculous situation was starting to get to her. "Oh- _dammit_, why won't this stupid thing just _open_?" she growled, hands trembling too badly to manage the clasp with any ease.

"Veronica, stop it-"

"**My Bonnet** _in a few satanic rituals through the*gene-mangling-_ **Motivation?-**"

"This is insane," Keene muttered, eyebrow arched.

"-**A Shit-Dog!**-"

"No," Veronica spat back at him, "You're-" _Dammit, quit laughing!_ "_You're_ insane," she managed to say, staving off another fit of the giggles, "_I'm_ fed up. That stupid robot is just broken. And if this is what it takes-"

"-**I*I*I have** _New Reno porn star_ **Happy*Teeth*bees in my - I have a backpack**-"

Veronica couldn't take it; she started laughing. The situation, what she was doing-

"Will someone _please_ get that thing out of here?" she implored them, finally getting the clasp free once she calmed enough to work at it. "Holy god what the.. _hell_ is happening, here?"

"-_most vomit I've ever seen_-"

"_Shut up!_" Veronica barked at the tweaking eyebot when she'd thought she'd finally gotten herself under control, relieved to find that it seemed to be done with its spaz attack. "Oh my god," she said, then, shaking her head, "what the hell am I doing? _You_-" she said, immediately raising her attention to Keene, "have been _making my life miserable_. It's bad enough that-" Catching sight of Marcus maneuvering over the debris to get to her, she took a slight step back, squinting at him. "Back off, Marcus, this is between him and me."

He wasn't listening; he grabbed one of the few blankets off the bed that wasn't held captive by the tipped shelving, shoving it towards her. "Here," he said flatly, getting to her right as the bra's clasp came free, making it a point to hold the blanket up enough to cover her as a temporary measure. "Take it, Veronica," he said. "I'm serious."

"He needs to see this."

"No he doesn't," Marcus said firmly. "Might _want_ to, but that's not the point."

"He said-"

"I know what he said," Marcus interrupted her. "But you don't need to listen."

"Yes I do!" Veronica protested, mystified by the old mutant's appeal. "He's-" She turned to look at Keene directly. "_You_-" -and she found herself laughing again. "You've been _driving me up the wall_. All I want is a _home_, Keene- it's the only one I've got, and you think I want it taken over by the same people who kicked me out of their territory?" Beat. "You know what? Forget that part," she said, staring at him balefully. "Do you see what you've driven me to? God's sakes, I'm getting _naked_ in front of a bunch of mutants to prove a stupid point! It took me _weeks_ to get this far with my girlfriend, and she was actually _nice_ to me!" She let out another short laugh, largely at her own expense, all the more appalled by the situation. "Wow, I don't know what that says about me, but it can't be good."

"What you're doing," Keene said, "it's not the same."

And though his voice had a thoughtful air to it, those words... Veronica could have killed him right there on the spot. Squaring her jaw and staring at the Nightkin, she tugged the loose undergarment off of her shoulders and whipped it at him spitefully. Right then, the three Nightkin in the room craned their necks to try and catch sight of what Marcus was hiding from them.

And Marcus, completely unwilling to let her keep at it- _or_ let the trio catch a peek- wrestled with her for as long as it took to wrap the blanket around her- a comical sight if ever there was one- all the while trying to keep his eyes off of what she'd just bared, the old mutant making it a point to hold her in place once he got her there. He easily had the upper edge, but she was determined to struggle free, her tenacity coming as a surprise to him.

"Goddamn, woman," he muttered, perplexed. "_Settle down_. It's not worth it."

"Yes it is!" Veronica retorted. "If I don't do _something_, _I'm_ gonna be the one who has to leave, _I'm_ gonna be the one who gets to have her intestines used as Christmas decorations, _I'm_-"

She stopped suddenly when she looked in Keene's direction, eyebrows raising. Marcus, unwilling to let her go again, didn't take the bait- until the scribe started cracking up. It was hard not to. It really was. There were only so many ways she could respond to seeing Keene with a bra hanging off of his head, just... standing there, completely perplexed. When the old mutant turned his head to look, finally- he couldn't help but have the same response.

"That's a good style for you, Keene," Marcus commented wryly.

As it was, it was good to see that even Keene had some idea of what was beyond the bounds of anger. Slowly plucking the undergarment off of his head, he arched his eyebrows casually, the boiling point the scene had reached mere moments ago diffused the moment he threw the garment onto the bed with a flick of his wrist. That done, he signaled for the three gawking Nightkin to leave with a brief wave of his hand. They complied, albeit grudgingly.

He was still beyond a sense of humor for the moment... but thankfully, he wasn't intent on murdering her anymore.

"You didn't let me finish," he said to the scribe in an even tone, ignoring her hysterics.

Calming as much as she was able, Veronica couldn't quite wipe the grin off her face, but she did her level best.

"Finish what?" she asked, sobering somewhat.

"I said it wasn't the same," Keene said. "That's the truth. But you didn't let me say that it doesn't matter."

As much as she knew he hated it, he wasn't averting his gaze or looking at her with the same kind of hatred as he had before. She didn't dare think that her ridiculous idea had actually worked, though. That... remained to be seen, and she wasn't about to get her hopes up. And, truth be told, she was shocked at his sudden lucidity- but then, she recognized that she might not be giving him enough credit.

"What do you mean?"

He watched her carefully; it didn't surprise her that he didn't answer her question when he spoke, but the one he posed was unexpected.

"Why would you do this?" he asked her. "Show yourself like this, if what you've said is true."

Otherwise, she didn't have the energy to fight with him over whether or not it was. Instead, she said, "Because I'm sick of fighting?" her voice hoarse, fatigued, the laughter replaced with as much sincerity as she could muster. "It's definitely not because I enjoy this. Tell you the truth- I feel like I could throw up any second here." Beat. "I didn't know how else to show you how damn hard I've been trying to understand. I mean, you're right, I don't hear voices, I don't-" She shook her head. "I _don't_ know what it's like. The best I can do is try, like I have been."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Veronica's expression turned to one of confusion, her brow furrowed.

"Not entirely," he amended. "There are human settlements outside the Mojave. Ones you could find, live in. But you chose here, and you're willing to go to these lengths to stay?" Beat. "Why?"

"At first- I didn't," Veronica admitted, pulling the blanket around herself a little tighter, the draft wafting in from the shattered window finally starting to get to her. "I didn't choose it, I mean. Not back then. Now, though... I like it here. Would... like it here, if you'd just ease up on me."

"She knows you're important to this place, Keene," Marcus added. "I asked her from the beginning to not pick fights with you, and so far, she hasn't. Hasn't even retaliated when you've picked 'em with her. She knows what'll happen if she gets in a brawl with you and wins. It's why she hasn't knocked your ass out when you've gotten on her case." He raised his eyebrows. "So. Don't you think it's time to re-evaluate you're opinion on this one?"

Keene considered what was said for a time, his eyes remaining on the scribe. Even with that awful, permanent sneer- she could swear he looked thoughtful, contemplative. He lingered for a time, still meeting her eyes, still looking at her with a surprising calm, for how furious he'd been before.

"What you say about the NCR," Keene said, voice evened out, "do you mean it? Their arrival had nothing to do with you?"

"Of course I mean it," Veronica replied, simple as that.

He watched her for a moment longer... and then he turned to leave, without argument. Marcus watched him depart, thick brows raised, a moment of silence spanning out through the room before he finally turned his attention back to the shaken scribe.

"Am... am I crazy," Veronica said uncertainly, "or did that actually work?"

"You are," Marcus said. "But I think you got through to him."

"At least there's that," she said under her breath, shivering slightly as the breeze started to blow in flecks of snow through the window.

"So what you said back there," he mentioned idly, stooping to gather up her armored robes from the floor, "about liking it here." He dropped the robes onto an unsullied part of the bed, his attention turning towards her. "Does that mean you've made a decision?"

Veronica smiled, amused; she didn't need to ask what he was talking about. "Marcus," she said, "look what I just did. That was the most- ridiculous thing I've ever done in my life." Beat. "What do _you_ think?"

Marcus returned her smile and said, "I think I'm glad you're staying."


	14. One Big Happy Family

Bit of a mini-segment this time. :3 At least in comparison to the last two.

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><p>[ 20 :: One Big Happy Family ]<p>

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><p>Sentinel Lyons and the rest of the Eastern Brotherhood's diplomatic detachment were not nearly so thrilled with the notion of staying where they were. Even Jameson, initially pleased with the idea of being able to study the Midwestern Brotherhood's archives in detail for the East Coast's own records, had begun to find the atmosphere just shy of oppressive, though it was for much different reasons than those given by the others.<p>

For one thing, the archives themselves had proven to be something of a trial to get through. She'd expected to run into database entries that were locked down from outside viewers, with or without the assurances from the General that she was being given unprecedented access; it was only natural to keep the most sensitive information away from prying eyes, and their privacy was something she'd intended to respect. True, some of the locked articles hardly looked as though they possessed anything that made them worth the increased security, but whether or not the measures taken to keep them from her view were warranted wasn't her judgment call to make. But after three weeks had passed, she began to take note of a rather puzzling phenomenon.

It appeared as though some of the articles she had access to were actively being altered.

The alterations were small enough that she'd barely noticed anything at first. In her line of work, having to read and re-read a wide variety of documentation for clarity's sake was necessary to ensure she hadn't missed or, in some cases, mis-read anything. It wasn't until she'd written down what she'd thought were a couple interesting tidbits of information in a small notebook she made it a point to carry- mostly on the Elder's predecessor, General Dekker- that she'd noticed an alteration first-hand. The notes she'd taken down didn't correspond at all with what she saw when she'd referenced the entry a second time, details concerning the General's age, origins and his rise to power shifted around. She'd wondered if perhaps she'd jotted down something incorrectly, blaming fatigue and the stress of having to stay in an unfamiliar location for the mishap- but then it happened again.

And again.

Every time it was something that seemed innocuous, and every time it was altered in such a way that what she'd written down appeared to be an honest mistake. It was vexing; she'd worked under incredibly stressful conditions in the past, situations in which a slew of small errors would have been completely understandable, but she couldn't remember a time when she had made mistakes so consistently. Even as an apprentice she'd done better. It made her wonder if, perhaps, something about the circumstances the diplomacy detachment had found themselves in was getting to her. Something about their morbidly assembled emissary or the fact that not once had she seen a Midwestern paladin wearing anything other than their full suits of power armor, helmet and all. She hadn't seen them eat, sleep, recreate... she'd only seen them stalking through the hallways and the grounds above, constantly on patrol.

Through the weeks, she'd refrained from mentioning everything she'd noticed to the Sentinel, instead doubling down in her efforts to check and double-check the notes she'd taken as they corresponded to the information she read from the terminals, the notes themselves becoming far more detailed than they had been. She started to keep track of what sentences preceded the information she jotted down, the context, the number of screens she'd cycled through to get to the data- all of which required many long hours and many late nights.

At that point, the fatigue was doing her no favors.

But, the practice of being more detailed, more stringent in her process of making sure her notes were accurate had lead to fewer mistakes, at first. It had helped; helped to know that she wasn't losing her edge or, god forbid, losing her mind little by little- but then it started to happen again. At those times, it was more blatant, and it had become clear that data was genuinely being altered; the first instance she'd seen of it, the first instance where she _knew_ with absolute certainty that she hadn't made an error, had happened within minutes of her going back to an entry she'd just finished reading.

The entry concerned a tribe named the Beastlords, a tribe that had established itself in Mardin, a location northwest of St. Louis known for harboring an underground, radioactive network of caves. The tribe had made life exceedingly difficult for Quincy, a small town at the Illinois border comprised of both humans and ghouls; not only were the brutes capable of commanding the local wildlife- including, as improbable as it sounded, deathclaws- but they were known to be cannibalistic. After suffering through several raids, the townspeople of Quincy were understandably concerned that the Beastlords' intent was to take advantage of what they deemed to be a readily available food supply.

The Brotherhood's aid had been requested when the Beastlords finally made a move to occupy the town. The situation had been dealt with, and the barbarians had been chased back to their point of origin, a network of caves beneath Mardin, but not all of them had been eradicated from the area. Some, it seemed, had survived; enough to breed, at least. It would be well over a decade before the tribe became a nuisance again, but when they did, their appetites had grown considerably. Again, the small town of Quincy was threatened, and again, the Brotherhood's help was requested. There was, however, some sort of problem; though the Brotherhood had an alliance with the town, they refused to send patrols, citing the reluctance shown by the town's mayor as a blatant breach of a treaty that had been signed after the first Beastlord occupation.

It was indicated that this had gone on for some time, but that eventually, the Brotherhood had intervened. The Beastlords were displaying some kind of illness- the infection that the General had told the Eastern detachment about- something that affected not only their motor skills but their cognitive abilities. Those afflicted no longer showed the same affinity for animal husbandry, had poor reaction times, and in the worst cases, sported what appeared to be dark contusions along their skin, contusions that would eventually become lesions. Once again chased back to their newly-established lair, the Beastlords' troubles were made even clearer: men, women and children could be seen suffering from far more advanced cases of the disease, and it was rumored to have a near-100% fatality rate.

Brotherhood paladins were instructed to dispose of the tribe entirely, and ensure that the bodies were disintegrated by repeated energy blasts; not even the animals the tribe had so heavily relied upon for backup were spared. Appended to the entry, it was mentioned that one of the surviving Beastlords the Brotherhood had hunted down had slipped out from under their radar, but that they'd found the brute's armor and tell-tale head dress at the end of the trail. Of the Beastlord himself, there had been no sign.

There was no mention of what happened to Quincy's former inhabitants, human and ghoul alike.

The history of that region had been fascinating to read about, but upon returning to the article, Jameson noticed one glaring omission: any mention of the treaty with Quincy, of the conflict that had made the Brotherhood abstain from lending a hand, had vanished. Only the request for help and the discovery of the disease remained. It took several minutes of staring at the screen for her to realize that something was genuinely amiss, wondering if perhaps her eyes weren't playing tricks on her.

Turning to glance towards the atomic clock keeping time on a nearby wall, she felt her heart skip a bit upon catching sight of the General standing in the doorway.

The sound of footsteps, a regular feature in the Vault, hadn't been enough to call her attention away from the disparity, but that she hadn't even noticed his presence- hadn't even noticed hints of it resonating through the room...

Had he spoken to her? Had he announced himself at all?

Doing her best to calm down, she took a slow breath and watched the robot carefully, taking the opportunity to say, "General," though her tone was tentative, "I'm glad you're here." A blatant lie, but she would've liked to think she told it well. "I've been wondering... do you know anything about a town called Quincy?"

The General hadn't replied; instead, he remained in the doorway, unblinking eyes staring plainly at her. The robot already unnerved her to some degree, but having it simply stand there, its bulk blocking the only exit in sight... the longer the silence persisted, the more discomfited the scribe became.

"Your Brothers up in Bunker Beta apparently had some kind of dispute with them?" she prompted him, brow furrowing.

Again, he failed to reply, the clawed hand at his side flexing once, fingers then curling inwards. The move would have hardly been noteworthy had there not been a few mild tics to follow, movements that appeared wholly involuntary. Minutes passed, the two watching each other quietly, the scribe's tension growing exponentially as she raised from her seat with her notebook in-hand.

"General?"

Silence.

The only answer the scribe received was the dull scraping noise that emitted from those lengthy metal claws shifting against one another, the sound becoming more erratic- rapid. Her heartbeat accelerated to the sound, though she took a slow breath in a vain attempt to calm herself. Eventually, the scraping stopped, but the cyborg still had no answer; he just continued to watch her, the silence that spanned between them growing deafening.

It made her wonder, briefly, if she was just dreaming.

Startled by the sound of his voice as it raised to say, "It's on the Illinois border," rather abruptly, as if there'd been no delay whatsoever, her confusion was only amplified by the conversational tone he took with her. "Why do you ask?"

...Like what she'd just seen was nothing out of the ordinary. If she'd seen it at all.

Jameson paused, eyeing the robot uneasily, uncertain of what to make of the response- or what she'd just witnessed. "No reason," she said, dimly aware of a slight waver in her tone. "I just- ah..." She smiled haltingly, saying, "General, do you mind- moving to the side a little? You're blocking the only-"

"Oh-" He chuckled softly. "Sorry, ma'am- didn't realize."

"It's alright," she said, though even to her ears it sounded like a blatant lie- even moreso as she hurried out of the small room she'd occupied for what had apparently been far too long.

"Ma'am?"

She turned briefly to glance at the General over her shoulder, though instinct told her to keep on walking.

"You feelin' alright?"

"I'm fine," she assured him, managing the most sincere smile she could muster. "I could just use to get some sleep." Again he began to simply stare at her- and again those claws began to click together. "Goodnight, General," she said after another lengthy, uncomfortable pause.

He didn't answer.

As discomfiting as the whole situation was, at least it gave her some method of solidifying that she wasn't just- seeing things. In part, anyway. It... _seemed _like that she hadn't just dreamed it into being thanks to some bizarre form of monitor hypnosis, but...

No. Something was definitely wrong in Fort Carson. Very, very wrong. Of this, she couldn't afford to have too many doubts.

Scurrying off to the room she shared with the Sentinel and the others, she hoped that she could finally prove, once and for all, that she had no reason to doubt her worst suspicions. That said... she was as grateful as she was disappointed to find Sarah and her subordinates fast asleep when she arrived; as much as she wanted some outside presence to calm her frayed nerves, she knew the younger woman would offer little in the way of solace. 'The place is just getting to you,' would undoubtedly be the first answer she got, until she could find some proof that something was actually happening.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>In the days that followed, Jameson took the opportunity to poke holes in the stories both the General and the archives were telling her, started to watch everything that transpired around the Fort. She watched the initiates, gaged the way they behaved, listened to the stories they had to tell as closely as she could; watched the paladins that shuffled around the Vault, none of them showing signs of ever taking that power armor off, none of them leading her to any room that could even be considered sleeping chambers. On at least one occasion, she could swear she saw one jolt awake after standing stock-still for well over an hour, but in that particular instance, she allowed for the possibility that maybe, just maybe, her paranoia was getting away with her.<p>

There was still the risk of delusion, she knew, and becoming overzealous wouldn't do her any favors... but she also allowed for the grim possibility that perhaps, she really was living in an outright delusion, and at times, that fear seemed well founded. Gathering up the initiative to ask the General about the town of Quincy again was one of those times.

"Quincy..." he'd said contemplatively. "Only thing they ever did wrong was cuddle up with a bunch'a crusty 'we limp-dicked lepers got rights too' cocksuckers. The mayor there tried to give 'em to us so we'd have a little extra cannon fodder, called it a fair trade for all the hard work we'd done."

Jameson squinted at him. "Crusty-" Oh. "You mean ghouls."

"Worthless," the General grunted, "every last one of 'em."

Odd that she felt a slight compulsion to defend the ghouls she'd seen in camp, those that hadn't lost their minds.

Choosing to refrain from comment, Jameson instead asked, "They really _traded_ them to you?"

The General chuckled. "It's just a figure of speech, ma'am," he assured her. "Those zombies volunteered for the job." He paused, considerate. "Quincy," he repeated again, almost absently. "Nope. Don't recall there being much of a conflict with them. The folks in Quincy were good people."

"I read something about them going back on a treaty they'd signed with the Brotherhood."

"What?" The General chortled slightly, a sound that never failed to sound peculiar. "Now why would they go and do a stupid thing like that?"

"But you did have a treaty," Jameson said. "What was that about?"

"Supply trade, mostly," the General replied. "Same as we had with all the agricultural communities."

Jameson paused, glancing down at the notebook in her hand. "I see," was all she said in response, in spite of the litany of answers she had to that. "I'm not sure where I got the idea that something went wrong... I guess I'll have to check the archives again."

"You do that. I'm sure you'll see we're just one big, happy family."

It wasn't the first time she'd heard that phrase, and it wouldn't be the last.

Besides that, there was more than just the idle conversations and the peculiar behaviour of the paladins to hold the scribe's attention. When she wasn't busy reading through the archives, she made it a point to stop into what passed for engineering so she could observe the repairs being done on the vertibird, telling Sarah and the others that she'd do her best to give them regular status updates, something they all seemed to appreciate. What they didn't appreciate was how rarely she came back with any good news for them.

The upshot was that she was learning, slowly but surely, the ins and outs of vertibird tech. The questions she asked, she tailored specifically towards attuning herself to the chopper's various parts; no, she wouldn't pick up months, even years worth of training or be able to rebuild its pieces from the ground up, but she could at least help with what little maintenance might be needed during their various trips. That, however, was just a side benefit; the other one was seeing yet more confirmation, in some ways, that even the repairs had oddities and redundancies aplenty.

The repairs were slow-going, the delicate nature of the task at hand making the scribes leery of rushing the job- or at least, that's what they'd told her. Their reticence was quite understandable- or would have been under most circumstances- so far as Jameson was concerned, but there were a couple times where it appeared as though they'd purposefully disassembled components that they'd previously fit back into place. This was often explained as necessary, that they feared they may have missed something vital when they're wired everything back together, that one or several key systems were experiencing glitches. Had it happened more often, she might have had more reason to suspect their explanations, but as it stood, she refrained from stating her uncertainties out loud.

Instead, she did what she knew she could do best: she took notes, documenting every change that had been made as inconspicuously as she was able. When asked by one of the engineers why she was bothering, if she didn't trust them, she'd wondered if maybe the excessive note-taking was pushing the envelope. Her answer, however, seemed to appease the engineer that was asking.

"We prefer to keep thorough logs of anything that's done to the vertibirds we have available to us," she'd explained. "We're still getting a handle on this particular type of technology, so it's helpful to keep track of all the details." Beat. "You do the same thing, don't you?"

The scribe smiled weakly at that. "Of course," he said, nodding.

"Would you mind if I looked over the repair log you have so far?"

"I'd- have to ask the guy in charge," he said obtusely, smile fading.

"Do that."

They hadn't spoken about it again since, and he'd yet to produce an adequate repair log.

Once that had occurred, Jameson was confident enough to express her misgivings to Sarah, showing the Sentinel the rate of progress and the 'repeat' repairs through the notes she'd taken. The Sentinel had, expectedly, seen little wrong with the diligence of the Midwest's shop jockeys, had said that she would rather the scribes be thorough, but she allowed for the possibility that something was amiss, telling Jameson that it'd be best to continue keeping an eye on the proceedings.

It seemed like a good sign, but the scribe didn't dismiss the possibility that she was being placated.

In truth, it was one of the few things that kept the scribe from feeling too rattled by the continuous oddities popping up in the Midwestern archives. Even as she saw confirmation for her suspicions around every corner, each confirmation always ended up seeming too subtle, too difficult to pin down as anything other than an eccentricity to call them definite signs of duplicity. It was a balancing act that she was looking forward to putting to an end, and soon, as never in her life had she felt so close to doubting her own sanity.

...But then the others began to show their own signs; show proof that it wasn't just Jameson that had to perform regular reality checks. It shouldn't have been comforting to see... but in her situation, it was the only kind of comfort she could get.


	15. Everyone's Problem Child

These updates should be coming more quickly now since I've got MOST of the additional scenes in that were missing from the other version of this.

Glad to see a little bit of feedback last time around, too! Loves me some feedback~~

BEWARE references to _evil drug things_. If you're allergic to even the mildest hints of substance use, you might want to think twice about picking through part of Kette's section. Otherwise, I figure the presence of Datura makes it likely that some actual real-life compounds exist in the wasteland, so it's not really a stretch to say it's possible that _certain substances_ are still floating around.

Though I'm pretty sure in the Commie-Paranoia-fest that was pre-war America, even possessing certain substances was considered sedition.

Anyway~

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><p>[ 21 :: Everyone's Problem Child ]<p>

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><p>"Heard about the stunt you pulled with Keene," Raul remarked as he set to work on fixing ED-E's ruined cannon mount.<p>

"Did you hear it worked?" Veronica replied, looking up from the repair jobs she was attempting on the cannon itself. "'Cause so far as I'm concerned, that's the important part."

"Nah," he replied, shooting a wry grin in her direction, "the important part is that you didn't have the good sense to wait 'til I was there to see it."

"Lech," Veronica said under her breath. Then, "Think you can bring the voice module back online?"

Raul paused- and sighed. "You sure you wanna do that? The gibberish this little man was spewin'-"

Veronica wrinkled her nose, raising the cannon to eye level. "'Little?'" She looked sidelong at Raul.

He chuckled. "And I'm the lech, huh?"

Grinning at the ghoul, Veronica set the cannon back on the table and got back to work on it, saying, "Do I detect a hint of envy?" in a facetious tone.

"Nothin' to envy," Raul said. "Can't say I don't feel for the guy, though. I know what it's like, losin' a piece like that."

Veronica took a moment to process what he said- paused, and raised her eyebrows to an impressive height. Raul just looked blankly at her for long enough to make her think that maybe, if only for a second, that he wasn't being sarcastic.

"It's a joke," Raul assured her mildly. "So you serious about that voice module?"

_Oh. Well that's good._ "I think I can fix it," Veronica said, though she didn't sound all that confident. "Maybe. I can try, anyway."

"If you know what's good for you," Raul said, putting some of the finishing touches on the cannon mount, "you'll leave it offline."

"That sounded like a threat," Veronica observed with an amused smile. "Is my little killbot getting on your nerves?" she sing-songed at him in the most sacchrine tone she could muster.

Raul grimaced. "S'not a killbot 'til I get that cannon back on here."

"I don't need the voice module on for very long," Veronica said, then, shaking her head as she handed the cannon over to Raul. "I just need to get a message to someone on the Strip."

Raising an eyebrow, Raul took the cannon from her. "An' what message'd that be? Whoever's gettin' it's gonna wonder what the hell'a 'bee dog cram bonnet' is."

"Or where it is," Veronica replied, grinning. "I think I can get it to play voice files uninterrupted, at least. It might still spew out some of the random things it was before, but hopefully it won't be doing it at often."

"Well..." Raul shrugged. "If it's goin' t'the Strip, there's a good chance that Torini guy'll sign 'im on as a new act."

"I better get royalties," Veronica warned the inert eyebot.

Raul chuckled. "Sounds familiar..."

Pausing, Veronica allowed for a smile to cross her features, her eyebrows raised. "Might have something to do with who it's going to."

"Kette?"

"Got it in one," said Veronica, leaning back on her chair to kick her feet up onto the workbench they sat at. "I figure if anyone's got the ammo stores we need to arm ourselves, it's gonna be her."

"Arm ourselves," Raul repeated, carefully screwing the cannon back into its mount. "You mean against the NCR." He looked at her. "You lookin' to start a shooting war?"

"No," Veronica assured him, "but I can't say the same for them."

"What makes you think they're planning anything?"

"Experience," she said ruefully. "This isn't the first time I've heard of recon patrols snooping around like this. Trust me, this is just step one."

"You positive they aren't just makin' sure all's well up here?"

Veronica looked at him curiously. "How do you live so long and stay so optimistic?"

Raul shrugged. "Just came off'a one war, _gatita,_" he reminded her. "Can't say I'm lookin' to start another."

"Neither am I," Veronica sighed. "But they are."

Shaking his head, Raul finished the last few adjustments on the cannon, pivoting the weapon to and fro to make sure it still had the same range.

"That looks so wrong," Veronica said, grinning lopsidedly.

"You wanna do it instead?" Raul replied flatly. "Seems to me you owe me one for skimpin' on the free show."

Veronica sighed. "You're not gonna drop that, are you?"

"Hell no."

"Only thing you're getting," Veronica said, "is a free demonstration on how to fix a plasma coil." She saw his rheumy eyes practically light up at that, and added, "_If_-"

Raul glanced at her sidelong. "If?" Beat. "Aw, come on-"

"-you fix that voice module."

"You drive a hard bargain," he muttered ruefully.

"So you'll do it?"

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed. "I'm gonna hate myself, but yeah, I'll do it."

Veronica grinned. "You're the best."

Raul grunted. "Damn right I am."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>The last time Veronica had seen Kette was in Jacobstown, at which point the courier had returned to the Strip. Times had been good; relaxing, slow-paced, but still interesting with a little mind-altering additives.<p>

The present, though- that was proving to be a different story.

Prior to that, the courier's life had been decidedly more calm than before, but had also become rather surreal, a trait that was naturally of her own making. After staking claim on the Lucky 38 and backing that claim with her prestige and a boat-load of caps- stingey though she may be, she knew when to treat herself in a big way when she felt she'd earned it- she'd agreed to cut power to the systems that had kept the tower's former owner alive, the back-up generators employed in order to lessen the power drain the derelict casino had put on the grid. That seemed to be enough for the politicians who'd moved into the area; she had saved them money, had contributed handsomely to the local economy with her purchase, preserved a New Vegas icon and to their minds, it never hurt to have one of the victors of the fight against the Legion hanging around. It came with its issues, certainly- Kette would never stop being Kette, and that invariably lead to some regrets for those that had agreed to let her keep the property- but that was another story entirely.

Soon after the acquisition, however, Kette had made her way through what had amounted to a month-long, celebratory binge on a stash of psychedelics she'd made it a point to help the Khans develop. And though keeping them around had come at a steep price- she'd liked Papa Khan, truly she had, arranging to have him offed in such a way that left her hands clean- and her ability to keep her silence on the matter had been difficult, their alliance with the NCR had kept them more or less omnipresent in the region. How long that would last remained to be seen- but for the time being, her dealings with them had always been pleasant. More than pleasant, really.

Well. Again. Something to be said for the bit with Papa Khan. That, she would have liked to do over.

Still, those left behind, though saddened by the loss of their leader, weren't worse for wear. They were, however, getting anxious, the NCR's constant bid to envelop everything it got its vast, greedy paws on starting to give rise to the possibility of another territorial dispute. The stirrings of it were happening everywhere, near as Kette could see, and for the Republic's most tenuous allies, the possibility of renewed hostilities was one that made the Red Rock canyon a tense and anxious place to be. The drug labs, however... those always seemed completely unburdened by the world outside, save for those rare times when buyers were hard to come by. Jack was always eager to learn a few new tricks, and eager to trade recipes. It made introducing him to some pre-war compounds all the more worthwhile, as he kept her in steady supply, and she, in turn, helped bring in the supplies he needed to make more of it.

"What's it called?" he'd asked her, at one point. "Can I name it?"

"No," Kette told him. "It's already got a name. They call it 'blotter'... or 'acid'...'blotter acid' if you'd like." Beat. "'Otter blacid' is acceptable," she deadpanned, "but only on Wednesdays."

"Aww, c'mon, kitty-Kette, we can give it a better name than _that_," he said. "Acid," he repeated, wrinkling his nose at the word. "Sounds like somethin' _bad_, you know? Nothin' bad about these colors... doesn't matter if it's a different name on Wednesdays, Tuesdays, whatever... your pupils tell the whole story."

Reaching out to tug at the man's mustache, Kette said, "Lip-worm..."

Jack swatted at her hand indignantly. "Fuckin' quit."

Kette was undeterred, raising her hand to tug at his mustache a second time. "This thing," she said. "_This thing_ tells the stories!"

The argument had devolved from there, becoming progressively more ludicrous- with more mustache-pulling and other childish maneuvers- until it wasn't an 'argument' anymore. Diane, for her part, had simply watched them like a movie-goer taking in some fine cinema, unbelievably amused at their antics. The blonde rarely bothered to partake in the chemically-altered side of their interactions, but she was more than happy to talk shop with Kette no matter what state the courier happened to be in, and the two had bonded quickly. Diane had even forgiven her for helping to take down their most loyal, albeit unpredictable, client base.

When Kette had finally decided to come down slowly and deal with the world on a less blitzed-out basis- on her own, tooling around the Strip and checking up on those contacts she still needed to keep tabs with- that she ended up being thrown off-kilter. It wasn't boredom that did it, or withdrawal, or reality harshing on her in such a way that made her want to flee back to a metaphysical high... Oh, no.

It was Colonel Moore.

Rather: _Brigadier General_ 'call me 'Baby-G' again and I'll kick your ass so hard your grandma'll feel it' Moore.

It wasn't that Kette didn't like the woman- she'd gotten Veronica out of several jams and had not, in fact, kicked the courier's ass yet, though it remained to be seen if that would stay true- but the topic of discussion that arose when they once again found themselves in each other's company could have been better. What came before that particular meeting, however...

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>It never failed.<p>

Every Monday night at sundown, there was what became its own regular block party, or so General Moore had been told.

The disruptions were tolerated largely because they didn't cause a major disturbance, just an annoyance- but to Moore's mind, the courier's presence on the Strip, her insistance that she be allowed to retain control of the Lucky 38 and the way she conducted business, they'd deposed Mr. House and installed another, more obnoxious varient.

Ms. Kette. Though some of the more disgruntled MPs had come up with the inane moniker of 'Mr. Cathouse,' using the peculiar pronunciation of the girl's name to make it stick.

The only upshot to the Monday night block party was that it made the courier easy to find- and that was precisely who Moore needed to speak to. Again. Much to her growing displeasure. Wearing the closest thing to plainclothes she could find on short notice- a crisp button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the tie abandoned, and a pair of smartly-tailored slacks from her dress uniform- she found the courier perched up on the metal awnings that surrounded the Lucky 38 Casino, a golf club in hand and a pile of produce at her feet. There was still organic debris clinging to the 38's roulette wheel logo from previous 'games' to give reason for why the courier had chosen both her location and her props, giving credence to why the street cleaners were requesting more caps than usual to compensate for their overtime. Unsurprisingly, there were several lunchboxes left open on a small stand placed on the ground that were brimming with bottle caps, and in spite of the 'odds' of whatever game was being played, the assembled crowd was only too happy to be robbed of their hard-earned money.

Even that achievement aside, Kette was in rare form, apparently, speaking to the assembled crowd like an amped-up televangelist. Really, it wouldn't have surprised Moore in the least to learn that there was a tie or two to the late Reverend Jones lurking in her family history.

Moore had come in on the peculiar line of "...For the sake of your children, Brothers and Sisters!" and it didn't end there. "For your children's children! Babies! _Everywhere!_ For Their Sake!" Kette glanced down at someone looming around the 'collection' tray, jabbing her golf club in his direction, "Careful, sweetheart, you start pawing at my loot and this driver's gonna be wearing your face." Beat. "Where was I? Ah, yes... _Congregation!_" she said, spreading her arms, "The lesson that we learn is that we must give in- NAY! _Fully surrender_ ourselves to our environment! To acknowledge it for what it is-" she gestured emphatically to the glitzy surroundings, crowing, "Pure, uncut, face-blistering _insanity!_"

In spite of herself, Moore couldn't help but offer a faint show of amusement at the hoots and hollers from the crowd- if only because she was certain that, like her, not a one of them understood a damn thing the girl was saying.

"So, let me get this straight..." she said to one of the soldiers alongside her, "this happens _every_ Monday night?"

"Yeah," he replied as Kette continued her bleating. "Does this kinda roulette after she's done-" He glanced over and, by all appearances, looked ready to crap himself. "H-holy sh- M.. ma'am, uh-" he offered a salute in spite of himself, well and truly horrified. "I didn't- I mean-"

Moore waved down his attempted salute. "At ease, Corporal," she said mildly. "I'm off-duty."

The Corporal did as he was told, as best he could- but looked back towards Kette nervously, nonplussed. To him, it seemed, the juxtaposition of the 'block party' and the presence of a decorated superior officer was simply too much for his poor, pickled brain to handle. And if she weren't here for a reason, Moore might have found that to be a suitable form of entertainment all to itself. At present, however, she took her time listening to the- whatever she was listening to to come to a close before ruining everyone's... fun. If that was what this was.

"And what better way to celebrate this revelation," Kette was saying, "then to climb onto that greased _hog-beast_ and ride the squealie little bastard into SPACE!" More applause; again, for seemingly no reason, and not a hint of understanding.

Not that there was anything to be understood in the first place.

"Your Ham-Rocket, worthy citizens," Kette continued, "will be the talk of the western world! But seriously, lets keep those bets coming."

"15!" one of the soldiers alongside Moore shouted.

"20!" shouted another.

"That's it, that's it," Kette said with a 'gimme' gesture, "Take the safe bet! Take the Long-Shot! Punch a Brahmin in the jimmy! _Do it for your country!_"

"16!" One of the Gomorrah strippers that time.

"I don't rightly give a fuck, said the left-handed Hooker!" Kette declared. "Screw the country, and let the chips fall where they may! Let's Raise this barn, then burn the bitch down! Say it with me now: _bets! Bets! Bets! Bets! Bets!-_"

Applause the girl could get; getting a chant to catch on? Not so much, apparently.

Kette was undeterred. "Fuck it!" she said, throwing up her arms and damn near sending her driver flying. "You're looking to get serious- no more horsing around, am I right? And that's what I like about you people, straight to business. Who knows, maybe one of you lucky bastards'll go home with all the happiness you can buy. There's truth to the lie, ladies and gentlemen, unmitigated proof of love after money!" She hunkered down, lined up the driver against one of the gourd seeds at her feet, and, without any additional pomp or ceremony- save to close her eyes- shouted, "_FORE!_"

"_I said 15!_" the bleary soldier cried out.

Kette came to an abrupt halt after the club had been raised. "It's just an expression!" she hissed at him, jabbing the club in his direction. "Goddamn, man, right in the middle of my backswing?" She snorted. "_Rude._"

"You mind telling me the rules to this 'game?'" Moore asked the petrified Corporal alongside her, keeping her eyes on the courier.

The Corporal glanced towards her warily, saying, "I uh... if... if she misses, no one has to pay up. If she hits a number you called, she pays out... like normal roulette. Base it on probability."

Normal roulette. Moore fought another amused smile. _Never seen it played with golf clubs._

"You only get one number?"

"No, you get-"

The Corporal went quiet suddenly, waiting for the courier to take the shot. Once she did, the powerful drive pulverizing the gourd seed into the 16 slot. Behind the crowd, the Gomorrah stripper gave a shrill squeal.

"Well I'll be damned," Kette said, turning to the crowd. "We've got ourselves a winner, ladies and-" she paused, looking down towards Moore. "-Generals," she concluded, eyebrows raised.

Suddenly, everyone turned to look in Moore's direction.

The General was less than pleased at the rapt attention and the sheer number of salutes popping up around her, an underwhelmed look shot in the courier's direction. "Thanks for that," she called up to Kette.

"My pleasure," Kette said, grinning lopsidedly. "You wanna place a bet?" She looked down to the stripper running headlong towards the payout lunchbox, tapping the golf club against the awning to say, "Just take what you're owed, sister. This crowd gets bloodthirsty if you get too greedy."

"And so do you, I bet," Moore remarked. "Listen, I hate to break up this little party of yours," she continued, not even bothering to make her words sound sincere, "but I need to speak with you."

An 'awwww' rose from the crowd, those assembled apparently hoping for a little more time with the peculiar street-side show the courier so happily put on. Kette didn't seem too pleased about it, either.

"Lemme guess," Kette said, sighing. "It's urgent."

Moore arched an eyebrow at her, saying little by way of response.

"Alright, alright," she said, tossing the golf club off the side of the awning with a loud clatter. "I'm comin'." Edging off the side of the awning and making a less-than-graceful landing onto the pavement, she straightened to shout, "Okay, people, break it up! The show's over! There'll always be next week!"

In spite of the grumbling, the crowd dispersed as asked, many of them flocking towards the Casinos to try their luck indoors. Kette, meanwhile, went about the business of smoothing out her hiked-up miniskirt, her lacking sense of propriety never failing to amaze. Once the girl had adjusted her glasses and the General had approached, however, she offered a congenial smile, far less crazed than the one she'd put forth on the awning.

Really, it was a crying shame the girl could be described as being in the same zipcode of 'asset to the NCR.' So far as Moore was concerned, having to deal closely with someone who was not only halfway to bleary-eyed insanity but at least fifteen years her junior, much less treat her as anything remotely resembling an equal... it was grating. But it, like so many other things of late, was just another irritating necessity.

"I hope that wasn't a speech you took time to rehearse," Moore said, casting a glance towards the impressive collection of caps.

Kette laughed. "Are you kidding?" she said, incredulous. "I just get up there and start talking about whatever the hell comes to mind. The crowd loves it. Only problem is, I gotta keep upping the ante. Can't let the routine get stale, you know?"

"Routine?" Moore repeated, vaguely amused. "I'm not sure that's the right word for it." Beat. "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"

Kette thumbed towards the '38, taking the dig in stride. "Whole lotta privacy in there," she said. "I'm the only one who gets to see the security monitors."

Well. How _about_ there? As it was, Kette's presence on the Strip, the demands she'd made to keep the Lucky 38 to herself, had kept the tower inaccessable, even to high-ranking officials. And as much as Moore found it slightly distasteful to become part of the rumor mill- _again_- there were dodges for that, and... the possibility of seeing the interior was an intriguing one. Then-

"God," Kette muttered, "never fails to get everywhere-"

Moore glanced back towards the young woman, getting out all of a "What?" before Kette started back up again.

"Hey!" she yelled. "Where's my towel boy?" And the courier was off, "Where the _fuck's_ my towel boy?" scampering after the hooker that had presumably won big off of the 'roulette' game. "You!" she shouted. "Just because you made a killing doesn't mean you can shirk your responsibility!"

Moore sighed wearily, unable to keep from comparing what she was watching to a slow-motion trainwreck as the hooker made several lewd gestures- as if adjusting barely-hanging-on-for-dear-life pasties wasn't bad enough to start with.

"Responsibility?" the hooker muttered, picking a towel up off the ground and chucking it back at the courier, the material snatched before it could whap her in the face. "I don't think so, sweetheart. _I'm_ taking the night off."

"No you're not," Kette informed her. "'Cause you're fired. And don't 'aww baby don't be like that' next time you want a few easy caps." She turned from the hooker and wiped the pulp off her face, raising her head to scan the crowd. Seeing some drunk, anonymous traveler shambling past, she shouted, "YOU!" and threw the towel at the back of his head, "_You're_ my new towel boy!"

Didn't matter if the poor bastard was confused; that was presumably the end of it.

And this, apparently, was normal for Monday night. Seeing the courier on approach again, Moore could only shake her head, mystified by the unbelievably aggravating twist of fate that landed her in a position where she actually _needed_ the girl's help. _Again_.

And of course, her expression of exasperation was met with an uncomprehending "What?"

Moore just looked at her.

_If I make it out of this without killing her,_ she thought ruefully, _I'll consider it a victory._

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>It was clear from the get go, if only thanks to the General's presence alone: this was Serious. On the QT, as it were- or it would have been, if Kette hadn't gone to the trouble of announcing Moore's presence to the entire 'congregation.' That much, Moore was quick to mention.<p>

"I was hoping to keep this meeting out of the public eye," Moore said flatly, though she was busily taking in the look and atmosphere of the derelict casino. "But I suppose there's ways to diffuse any rumors that come from it."

"Didn't anyone tell you about the block parties?" Kette asked, grinning over her shoulder as she lead the General towards the VIP lounge.

"They had," Moore replied. "The descriptions were- colorful."

"Did I get good reviews?" Kette asked, pausing at the top of the stairs leading up to the raised bar as the General took her time with the ascent.

"It's not uncommon to see a series of expletives surrounding your name in those reports," Moore informed her, a wry halfsmile on her face.

"I'd call that a success," Kette said, trotting over towards the bar to slip behind it.

"Tell that to the MPs."

"I did!" Kette replied. "They didn't seem to appreciate it."

"Why am I not surprised..." Moore approached the bar casually, still taking in the look of her surroundings. "We'll need to talk about the cleaning fees and revenue requirements for those, though. Normally one of Crocker's yes-men would be the one to do it, but since I'm here..."

"May as well use it as a believable excuse?" Kette completed for her. "Sounds like a plan to me." Beat. "Want anything to drink, by the way? We got- scotch. Vodka. An arrangement of empty beer bottles..."

"Scotch," Moore said, resting her hand against the bar top as she came alongside it. "In a clean glass," she added, seeing Kette make a grab for one of the dustier ones.

Kette complied, though it took her a while to find a glass that wasn't already used or absolutely caked in dust. Once she did, she got to pouring, sliding the tumbler over towards the General casually.

"So, you're being clandestine, huh?" Kette remarked, then, grinning. "I like it."

Moore looked at her irritably.

"Sorry to blow your cover out there, by the way," Kette said, grin turning lopsided. "And after all that business about Gomorrah finally died down, too." She leaned her chin against the heel of her hand, eyebrows raised, drawling, "You're just too good at giving people things to talk about."

"I'd watch your step with that if I were you," Moore said flatly, fixing the courier with a stare that was rife with implications- all of them bad. "If I hear a single rumor that traces back to you, you'll have more than the cancellation of your little 'block parties' to worry about."

Kette sobered, raising her hands slightly. "Point taken," she said. "So what's this about? Seeing as it's not a social call. Or-" her expression turned conspiratorial, "_is_ it?"

Moore arched an eyebrow. "You could only be so lucky."

Grinning at the hint of wry humor in the other woman's voice, Kette said, "A girl can dream," affecting a theatric tone.

"Well. Far be it from me to shatter those dreams," Moore deadpanned, "but this isn't about you. It's about your friend, Ms. Santangelo."

"That _woman,_" Kette sighed, feigning exasperation. "What did she give you? Flowers? Jewelery? I can do better. I can-" she paused, noting the other woman's less-than-amused expression. "I can shut up."

"You sure about that?" Moore asked flatly.

Kette donned an innocent smile. "I'm done," she announced. "I swear."

"Because," Moore said, "unlike some of the men I work with, I don't have a problem with hitting a woman."

"You made your point!" Kette insisted, raising her hands a bit higher. "Just- tell me what this is about. What's got you chasing Veronica's skirt this time?"

There was that look again.

"-I didn't mean to phrase it that way, I promise," Kette said, properly chastised. "Pretend I said something that didn't sound sexual."

Shaking her head, Moore said, "This time," and took a sip of the drink she had in hand before answering the courier's question. "I'm assuming," she went on to say, setting the glass back down, "that you remember the purpose behind the meetings I had with her in the first place."

Kette nodded. "She was about to cause the biggest diplomatic nightmare of your career, if I'm not mistaken."

"Well..." Moore's downplayed smile was rueful this time. "She's liable to create an entirely new diplomatic nightmare- one that could cause significant problems for the both of us."

"Both of us meaning- you and her," Kette said, confirming. "I'm guessing I don't really have a stake in this."

"You do," Moore said, "insofar as she's your friend and former ally."

"Well, yeah," Kette said, "there is that."

"But yes," Moore went on, "she and I both stand to lose a great deal if the situation isn't dealt with quickly- and quietly."

"What situation is that?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss details," Moore replied, "except to say that it'd be in everyone's best interests to have Ms. Santangelo out of the Mojave _and_ the surrounding territories."

Kette raised an eyebrow. "I take it you know where she is?"

"Considering how eager you were to keep her around," Moore said, giving no hint one way or another as to whether or not she knew anything, "I figured it was safe to assume that she's as close-by as she can be without violating the terms of our agreement."

It was a safe assumption, Kette had to grant her that. "Supposing you're right," she said, regardless, "that Veronica's nearby, I'm not... really sure it's in her best interests to go anywhere. This'll be the third home she's been forced out of."

"It's a raw deal, I'll say that much," Moore conceded, ignoring the dopey grin 'raw deal' brought out on the younger woman's face. "But there's nothing to be done about it."

"So- let me get this straight," Kette said, sobering. "You want me to find Veronica-" She paused upon getting another _look_ from the General, a light sigh leaving her. "You want me to _talk to_ Veronica," she clarified, "get her out of the area... and then what?"

"Find out if there's anything she's helped construct in whatever settlement she happens to call 'home,'" Moore said, without skirting the issue. "If we secure a territory that has some of the Brotherhood's signature tech laying around, there'll be trouble."

"For you," Kette said, largely for clarification.

"For me, yes," Moore said flatly. "But also for the treaty." Beat. "Really, I should have made sure I'd told that girl to get as far away as possible the last time I talked to her, but I won't be repeating that mistake. This time, she goes."

"Poor thing can't help but be everyone's problem child," Kette sighed, pouring herself a measure of scotch.

Moore snorted, shaking her head ruefully. "I'll drink to that," she muttered.

Kette smirked. "Yeah," she said. "But as problem children go-" -she paused to throw back her drink- "-she's my favorite."


	16. The Sentries: Interlude I

These will happen now and again. For now if you're confused, don't worry about it. ALL WILL SOON BE CLEAR.

* * *

><p>[ 22 :: The Sentries: Interlude I ]<p>

* * *

><p>Lonesome.<p>

That was the feeling. He was lonesome.

He hadn't heard her voice in what felt like years, hadn't seen her walking by; didn't, for a long time, understand why this was. One day she was there, and the next, just gone.

Vanished.

Lazing through the days in what passed for a home with what few friends he laid claim to, many of whom were too far gone- or too young- to be good company, to grasp the concepts he had, he'd waited for some sign of her return, but saw none. Her presence, hints of her, had lingered for a time, but they were waning more and more as the days grew longer, her place in his thoughts slowly becoming replaced by others like her, individuals he had come to rely upon... They were somewhere nearby. But every time he thought it was the right moment to move on, to seek them out, he was reminded that patience would be his greatest virtue. By what, or whom the reminder came from, he couldn't be sure.

It all tied back to that _awareness,_ an awareness that said, simply: wait.

He wasn't certain when it had happened, wasn't sure when that sense of renewed cognition had sparked to life in him, but once it had, he found himself occasionally wishing it never had. It seemed cruel to know, to experience fully what his life had become, but somewhere in the back of his mind- which had miraculously been spared atrophy over many long years of disuse- he knew it was just a transitory moment.

Something big was on the horizon, and once it struck, he would be free to roam again, wouldn't be alone any longer. How he knew, he had trouble understanding; he just knew. He could close his eyes and chart a course to the spot where it would happen, navigate a multitude of pathways he could take to get there, and envision how it would feel, what it would be like when that day came.

That blessed day.

And that feeling, that sense, was the only thing that granted him the patience he needed.

* * *

><p><em>WHO IS IT. WHO COULD IT BE. Tune in next time for Weird Crap That Makes No Sense Now But Will Later!<em>


	17. Arm Yourself With a Rolled Up Newspaper

A couple things here: First, ugggh, Morales is ill-defined in-game since he's only mentioned in a SINGLE NOTE, but regardless, he suited the needs for the scene. Sorry if that personality seems a little 'all over the place.'

Also, I'm giving a nod to the luverly auth!anon who wrote _Vincit qui se Vincit_ on the Fallout kinkmeme re: ED-E's 'whisker flicking,' here. I loved that little addition so I'm shamelessly ripping it off. But with props.

* * *

><p>[ 23 :: Arm Yourself With a Rolled-Up Newspaper (aka: This, Too, May Not Amount to Anything) ]<p>

* * *

><p>To Veronica, snow was a novelty.<p>

She'd heard it still happened in what remained of Lake Tahoe back in California, but she'd never been to the northern part of the state. And while she'd seen white-capped mountain tops from a distance throughout what few travels she laid claim to, she'd never stayed in an area where snow happened regularly. To be in a climate where it did- it was different. Unique. Something she found she appreciated more than she thought she might initially. That didn't mean she wasn't pleased on days when the climate of Jacobstown became more hospitable.

She'd commented before, to Calamity and others, that it seemed odd that the town only seemed to reach temperatures usually seen on a brisk spring day when all around them, the Mojave was sweltering. No one had a proper answer for why that was the case; no matter how scientifically minded some of the inhabitants were, there wasn't a single one of them that understood much of anything about meteorology. In the end, the scribe had simply accepted it for what it was: pleasant, pretty and different enough from the places she used to call home to make it absent of unfortunate reminders.

Save for the NCR scouts encroaching on the small settlement. But that wasn't unfortunate: that was in a category all its own.

Now, granted, she never considered herself to be the spiteful sort, but after hearing continued reports of scouting patrol sightings, she found herself inundated with a litany of bad memories, saying nothing of ill will. She had been happy to negotiate with Colonel Moore back when she had no place to go, back when there was no conflict between her and the Republic, but this was different.

Being in Jacobstown, she'd found herself relieved to be rid of the NCR's presence, regardless of whether or not they were right next door. Granted, Raul may have been right in his assessment that the scouts were simply checking to see if there was anything they should be concerned about when it came to the mutants that roamed the place; they could just be there to assure themselves that they didn't pose a threat. But the frequency of sightings, Calamity's report upon returning from a week's worth of trading that there seemed to be more soldiers milling about the site of the old Ranger station than usual... all the things she'd been told made it seem less and less likely that there was anything truly innocuous about the Republic's motives.

In a fit of pique, she'd told Marcus what her intentions were. To bring in weaponry- disassembled if necessary, for the sake of avoiding suspicion, then put back together upon arrival by Raul and anyone else capable of detailed repair work- and to make sure that the town stood a chance of defending itself. She was tired of running, she'd said in no uncertain terms, tired of hiding, and even though the trait had been one of her least flattering at several points in her life, her inclination to believe that some things just needed to be dealt with head-on, no matter how futile the cause seemed to be, was one she was sticking to in this case.

The Republic, while likely to succeed in an outright attack thanks to sheer numbers, deserved to at least get a pair of black eyes as a reward for its efforts.

He'd been taken aback by what he'd seen as a moment of irrationality, commenting that it seemed uncharacteristic of her to be so fatalistic. It was then that she'd surprised herself by telling him that the circumstances ran near parallel to the events that preceded the deaths of her parents; it started with scouting parties, but it never ended there. The Republic's methods of reconnaissance spelled certain doom if Jacobstown didn't prepare itself for an all-out fight, she'd said, and while fighting back also spelled certain doom to some degree, the least the town's inhabitants could do was make the military deeply regret their decision to invade.

It was almost a shame that she didn't know, couldn't know, how much that brigade's commander was already regretting it.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Seated in her office with General Oliver, a Senator in from Shady Sands and a member of his personal staff, General Moore found herself pondering a series of unfortunate questions. Chief among them was whether or not she had a 'Kick Me' sign on her back that no one was telling her about.<p>

What had promised to be a simple coffee and cake run had become complicated by the presence of the Brotherhood Scribe she'd vouched for at the end of the war with the Legion. And now, complications were piling up, specifically from the "outside consultation," as Oliver had put it, that they were apparently obliged to endure from one of the men vying for the territory she'd been tasked with securing. The man in question was Senator Morales, along with his aid and a pair of what passed for Secret Servicemen, the lot of them flown in from Shady Sands as many politicos were wont to do after the war had been won. Assured of their safety now that a great deal of threats had been pacified, there had started to be a continuous stream of Senators and congressional aides swarming New Vegas, most of them looking to 'assess the situation' so they could back up some of their, at times, unfortunate opinions on it. Some of them were looking to find examples of how ill-advised Kimball's campaign in the Mojave had been whereas others were determined to prove the opposite. That expansion was beneficial, that the cost of the campaign had been well worth it, that soon they could work to bridge the two settlements and re-establish the lost foothold civilization had on the Americas.

But then there was Morales... and Morales clearly had something else in mind.

When Moore had heard about the thugs hired to take pot shots at Jacobstown, his name had been attached to the entire thing. While she'd been irritated with it- he was meddling at a time when he absolutely shouldn't have been- she had nonetheless brushed it off on account of agreeing, in some small way, that greater food production would in no way be a bad thing. However, finding out he'd come all the way out to the Mojave for the express purpose of 'talking over' the plans she'd laid out to secure Jacobstown had brought that irritation back to the surface.

It had all started with the quick talk General Oliver had pulled her aside for prior to the briefing.

"I know you're not gonna like this," he said to her, "but it's one of those 'necessary evils' we just gotta deal with."

"'Evil' I'll grant you," Moore had replied, "but I'm not sure 'necessary' applies, here. The man is a politician, not a military adviser."

"It'll be worth your while to hear him out," Oliver said, which she read, correctly, as 'and I'll order you to do it if I have to.' "He's been getting advice from the ranchers on how to make sure the land doesn't get too torn up during the engagement. And near as I can tell, that advice is a damn sight better than anything our sharecroppers can give us."

"At least we know who to go to for advice on how to gracefully deal with an exercise in futility," she said, to which Oliver snorted in mild amusement. "Who chose that location, anyway? The city planners?"

"Wouldn't know," he said. "Not my department." He shook his head. "Useless bastards wouldn't have enough sense to pour piss out've a boot if the instructions were written on the heel," he muttered under his breath.

"It does make you wonder what their selection process is," she mused aloud, deadpan. "Do they pay the first burnt-out junkie they find to shit in his hand and throw it in a random direction? First place it lands is where they decide to plant the flag?" She paused, favoring Oliver with a patently underwhelmed expression. "They're not stepping in after we've routed the mutants, are they?"

Oliver chuckled. "Hell, no," he said. "Land's already spoken for."

"Spoken for?" Moore asked, eyebrow raised. "By who?"

And for all of a heartbeat, the man looked like he'd swallowed something sour. "Doesn't matter," was all he said, demeanor shifting. "Now I know you like to argue with these types," he went on to say, enacting as swift a recovery as he could manage, "hell, you could win an argument with a wall if you put your mind to it, but I need you to tone it down in there."

Really.

"Can I ask-" was all she got out before he shut her down.

"No, you can't."

Pausing, she furrowed her brow slightly. "I'd at least like to know why a face to face meeting is necessary," she said bluntly, the man's behaviour giving her cause for greater curiosity. "Nevermind the reasons for this pep talk."

"And I'm sure a man in hell'd like a drink of water, too," he replied. "Doesn't mean he's getting one."

She raised an eyebrow. "Understood," she said mildly. "But since we're already on the subject, are there any other behavioural tips you'd like to share? If not, may I suggest you arm yourself with a rolled up newspaper for a little added insurance?"

Silence.

"You've still got one star to my four, General," Oliver said, giving her a wearied look, her title spoken somewhat ruefully. "If I tell you to keep your smart-ass remarks to yourself, I expect you to do it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Her compliance seemed to pacify for him, at least, as his tone evened out when he spoke again. "Anything else you wanna get out'a your system before we go in there?" he asked. "Or was that it?"

"It is," she assured him, somewhat blandly. _For now._

"Good," he said, apparently content with her answer. "'Cause while I trust you're more than capable of carrying this through without a hitch, this isn't gonna be your every-day field operation."

At that point, he afforded her at least some of the explanation she'd sought after, but it was, unsurprisingly, on his own terms, as if to drill the point home that she wasn't in any position to make requests.

He had gone on at some length to justify Morales' presence at that point, explaining that apparently, the Senator had been told by the ranchers funding his campaigns that there were certain weapons that couldn't be used, precautions that needed to be taken, and instructions that needed to be given on how to deal with the wild herds of Bighorners that populated the area... so and so forth. It made a modicum of sense, of course, but it still didn't account for why the meeting had to be done in person. It could have just as easily been done by radio, and it wasn't as though the Senator just happened to be in the area. No, he'd come to the Mojave specifically for this purpose.

And so, there she was, stuck in a room with the three of them, wondering if perhaps God himself had decided that she could use to develop a bleeding ulcer- or chronic migraines, and the first item of business just exemplified that point.

Morales had announced, utterly unapologetic, "I'd say leave those mutants to rot in their own goddamn filth, but I don't want their mutantitis or whatever the hell kind of thalidomide they've got leeching into the soil." He sniffed, jaw squaring. "Can't have that," he said, shaking his head. "No... we can't have that at all."

There were so many things wrong with that statement it made her head spin. Either way, it took effort to refrain from reminding the man that Bighorners themselves were in many ways afflicted with 'mutantitis.'

And thalidomide? God help her.

Aside from that, however, he'd been pretty specific about what measures needed to be taken. The way he conducted himself was one she'd gotten used to from higher-ranking officials in the civilian government: a firm belief that he was completely in charge of the situation, even in spite of his inability to fully grasp the situation. And that lack of understanding was illustrated in a good number of his suggestions.

Don't shoot at the livestock; tricky in crossfire, but generally not a problem. Don't use land mines in areas that could be used for grazing; alright, that could present some issues but there were ways to improvise. Try to leave any buildings intact with minimal damage so people could put them to use once the dust settled, less difficult than the other two provisions, but there was bound to be some collateral damage.

But then came several kickers, stated in ways that implicated how great a stake he had in the outcome. His suggested ban on explosives extended to everything in that particular category, all of which would have come in handy when dealing with, of all things, super mutants. The same went for flamethrowers. His determination that it would be best if they could get security detail for any clean-up that needed to be done in the aftermath. Apparently, stray shell casings got eaten by both the wild and domesticated animals.

To his credit, though- however piffling the concession was- at least one of his inane suggestions came with some admitted uncertainties.

"There's a, ahh..." he paused, nursing at a cigar he'd lit contemplatively, "a _technique..._" he said through plumes of smoke,_ "_meant to make life uncomfortable for people in that position."

When he trailed off, Moore said, "A fortified position, you mean?" affecting a dry tone.

Morales didn't seem to take the question poorly. "Yes. Precisely. Setting up speakers and blasting music at them, maybe... something to keep them awake at all hours? Put some floodlights on them... drive them out without causing any damage to the property."

'The property.' It was a telling way of phrasing it.

"With all due respect," Moore replied then, mindful of Oliver's sidelong look, "that technique is of far greater use in cases where the targets need to be kept alive, and typically, those targets are human. Mutants won't respond well to being antagonized; they _will_ retaliate. And unlike us, they don't have someone to 'advise' them on what weapons they can and cannot use." She hadn't bothered to disguise her distaste for that particular suggestion.

Oliver's reply to the subject being breached, however... that came as some surprise.

"About that," he said. "It's not advice. I intend to make it a standing order."

Looking at the man incredulously, Moore took a moment to digest what she was hearing. "You want me," she said, "to agree to throw men and women at the gates of a heavily fortified compound, and tell them they can't use _any_ heavy weaponry? That turns a disadvantage into a _crippling_ disadvantage."

"You'll be going with them, by the way," Morales said tangentially. "Or rather... it'd be _preferable_ if you did," he added, as if that would somehow make him sound lest presumptuous.

"She will," Oliver said, without waiting for her to respond. "It's like you said," he continued, turning to Moore, "it's a disadvantage. Having you out in the field to better direct your troops will give us a better chance of pulling this off with minimal casualties."

Oh. Well then. That was good news.

Or not.

"I'd prefer _no_ casualties, personally," Moore replied flatly, as dumbfounded as she was thrown by the turn the conversation had taken.

And by Oliver's complete agreement with every idiot notion floated throughout it. Morales was a Senator, not the President. He had no legal authority to throw his weight around like he was. No, there was something going on here- something else at stake, something that had Oliver's attention.

"That's what we'd all prefer," Oliver said, then.

And yet...

"You do realize that what you're suggesting _could_ bring my entire brigade's combat readiness into question, don't you?" she said, feeling a faint tightness in her stomach that she hadn't felt since her first days of training. "The kinds of casualties we're talking about-" Coming to a dead halt when it was clear her appeal was going nowhere, she stayed quiet for a long moment, more mystified than she'd like to be. "This just seems like quite a ways to go to get our hands on some simple farmland," she said, doing her best to smooth out her tone of voice.

"You don't have to agree with it," Oliver said, simply. "You just have to make sure it gets done. Properly."

"And really, Cassandra, let's not be so _dramatic_ about it," Morales chimed in chidingly.

_Cassandra_. The way he spoke to her set her teeth on edge; even Oliver looked tense after hearing that faux-pas.

"I don't remember being on a first-name basis," Moore said in warning, the restraint she held over herself making the stare she leveled on the man just short of baleful.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to step on your toes, General," Oliver interrupted, attempting to diffuse the situation before it got too heated. "Settle down."

"I apologize," Morales said, without a hint of sincerity. "That was my mistake." He smiled at Moore congenially, saying, "But as I was saying, the, ah- _restrictions, _as you call them, they're not _crippling_, just a little..." he gestured with his cigar absently, "inconvenient. After all, you have sharpshooters, a whole host of grunts that're familiar with assault rifles-"

God, that man's _tone-_ "I don't know if you've noticed," Moore interrupted him, incensed by the condescension, "but to a mutant, an assault rifle may as well be the equivalent of a BB gun." Seeing a prompting look in response, she bristled, adding, "Never mind that they're likely to have weapons that easily outpace our own; their usual fare is more in line with high-powered machine guns. Miniguns, heavy incinerators, _rocket launchers..._" And still, she got no response. "The kind of firepower that could do far more damage than we can conceivably handle?" she said, deadpan. "We _are_ allowed to use _some _kind of equivalent, aren't we?" she asked Oliver, then, eyebrow raised. "Have _something_ to level the playing field?"

"Like I said," Morales replied, "I'd generally discourage any heavy weaponry. Could cause too much of a hassle for the cleaning crew once everything settles."

"The cleaning crew," Moore repeated, looking at him incredulously. "You're kidding."

He wasn't.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Once the two men departed from her office at the end of the briefing, Moore could almost describe the feeling she had as dizziness. That morning-after-boozing-it-up disorientation that came complete with a sour stomach and a cold sweat. It wasn't that bad, necessarily, but it did bring up something that she wasn't all that used to anymore: actual uncertainty. By all rights, the briefing should never have happened. Things that were said, the orders given, they were all ludicrous. So much so that the absurdity reeked of a farce, and <em>worse<em>, that it was being flaunted in front of her. Why, though, she couldn't quite get a firm handle on.

Adding to it was the tone General Oliver had taken with her. 'Smart-ass remarks?' What was she, an upstart eighteen year old?

"Ma'am?"

The sound of O'Hanrahan's voice pulled her from her thoughts for long enough to glance up towards him, though she couldn't for the life of her pretend to be interested.

"Private," she greeted him as he stepped over the threshold, not at all surprised to see him holding yet another stack of completed papers- and another mug of coffee. "Are those the new maintenance reports?"

"Yes ma'am," he confirmed.

Silence.

Eyeing him, she said, "Anything else?"

"Uh..." Beat. "No, ma'am, not really, just, figure I should ask- is anything the matter?"

"No," she replied flatly. "Why?"

"Well, I just saw the General makin' his way outta here and, uh- if you don't mind me sayin', you look like you could, I don't know... use to get a little shut-eye, maybe."

She arched an eyebrow at him, accepting the stack of papers from him as he set the coffee down. "You know the old saying," she sighed, sifting through the forms and barely seeing any of the words. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Aw, now, that's no way to talk."

She looked up at him, incredulous. "Neither is that."

"Right... sorry."

He lingered for a time- long enough to make her pause in what little she was doing, another look shot in his direction.

Sighing, she repeated, "Anything _else?_" tone thoroughly underwhelmed.

"No, ma'am."

"Then you're dismissed," she said, inclining her head towards the door. He was very nearly at the threshold by the time she'd changed her mind, saying, "Actually-" Beat. "Come back here for a second. There's something I'd like to ask you."

Dutifully, he trotted back over towards the desk, all ears. Raising her eyes to him to look at him for a moment, pausing only to find the right way to phrase what was on her mind.

"I didn't happen to get any mail concerning this Morales visit, did I?" she asked, curious. "Something you might've missed?"

He shifted a little, looking either slightly uncomfortable or just- she couldn't really tell what that face was about, honestly.

"Well?" she prompted him.

"I don't leave nothin' out," he replied, "if that's what you're thinkin'. Just what you ask me to."

Squinting at him, she asked, "When have I ever told you to leave anything out?"

"Last week," he replied, surprisingly quick with an answer- and oddly enthusiastic about it. "A memo. I told you about it, remember? Told you it'd come in by accident?" Seeing no immediate recognition, he added, "You told me to get rid of it. Said I should do some pretty unpleasant things with it when I asked if you were sure."

"Oh... yes, I remember." She paused. "Why?"

"Well... I don't mean to upset you, but- I thought it might be best if I kept it." Catching the hint that he was due for a reaming in her expression, he went on to say, "Now- before you get mad," rather hastily, "I just wanna say, that Morales guy... he's the one who sent the thing. Wasn't sure why it showed up here, either, 'til I looked at the initials on it."

It had been a good move on his part, clarifying as quickly as he did; now he had her curiosity rather than her outright ire. "You don't happen to have it on hand, do you?" she asked, then, eyebrow raised.

"Indeed I do," he confirmed, the smile on his face dwindling once he saw her raise an eyebrow. "I know it don't really seem right, carrying it around like this," he said, shrugging lopsidedly as one of his hands dug around in his pocket, "but... I think when you see it, you'll understand why."

The paper was handed over to her, partly crumpled; hearing him apologize for the state of the paper and waving it off, she said, "Close the door," as she read what was there, brow furrowed slightly.

The memo, while seemingly incoherent, was precisely what O'Hanrahan had said: the sender, Morales, and the recipient, Oliver, all of it neatly woven together by the subject line: _G/CM_. It read:

_...This should be simple. When a wolf shows its taste for blood, no one mind's seeing it put down. After my visit, we'll know if this is our wolf. Questions?..._

"Does anyone know that you have this?" Moore asked, though she kept her eyes on the memo.

"No, ma'am," O'Hanrahan replied. "They asked, though... s'why I went'n told you about it. Don't rightly know what the heck it means, but-"

"They asked?" she said, raising her eyes then. "When? What did you tell them?"

"Weren't long after it came in that I got the call," he said. "Thought it was a bit strange that they wanted to know about it, so I told 'em all you got that morning was two copies of that memo- uh... Think it was the one them boys down in the kitchen sent out."

She shook her head, looking back down at the memo. "That was the one about the food trays, wasn't it?"

"Yep." O'Hanrahan nodded. "That'd be it."

Pausing, Moore raised her hand to rub lightly at her chin, scanning the words again. "I've heard you say something about a wolf before," she said absently, breaking the brief stint of silence. "One of those kitschy colloquialisms you spit out every time the mood strikes you."

"Pardon?" He sounded bemused. "Y'mean... the one about- feelin' like you been 'et by a wolf and shit over a cliff?"

"That's the one," she said, a rueful, humorless smile on her face. "Fitting, isn't it? Because judging by this," she flicked the paper in her hand with her pointer finger absently, "I'm about to find out what it feels like to be 'shit over a cliff.'"

_But if I'm the wolf,_ she thought, expression going cold, faintly resenting how she completed the line for herself- the last thing she needed to think about was how that particular phrase _ended_, really- and instead, amended, _those conniving bastards will go down with me._

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>On the other side of the political fence, things were equally pensive; the old mutant was privy to his own misgivings about the situation, but it was for decidedly different reasons.<p>

The consequences of taking defensive action against an encroaching enemy, much less a _human _enemy that laid claim to more civilians than he'd ever seen in the wastes, made him wary of jumping to conclusions. The last thing the mutants needed was an even worse reputation than what they had already, and the NCR was liable to put a bad spin on the situation if they caught sight of the town arming itself to the teeth.

Either way, Marcus hadn't been convinced that the situation was that bad- he wasn't convinced the presence of the scouts spelled 'attack,' either, though he knew to be wary- but he had agreed, as he had all along, that it would be far better to have a plan of action than assume they needed none at all. And in the end, he thanked her for her efforts in ensuring the town had a fighting chance, even if he raised an eyebrow at who- or what, more correctly- she'd chosen to be the medium through which the request for armaments was conveyed.

As if sensing that it was being condescended to when Marcus had brought his misgivings, the newly-restored eyebot hovering alongside the scribe had flicked its antennae in a way that seemed almost indignant.

"**I have bees in my*idiot**," it replied.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Marcus said dryly.

"Bees are good motivators," Veronica replied, half-smirking. "Even for idiots."

"We'll see about that," Marcus muttered, shaking his head. "When's he set to leave?"

"Today," she said. "I'm gonna record a message for Kette that I hope it'll deliver once it reaches the '38."

"And you're positive that the message won't get mangled?" he asked her incredulously. "Or delivered to the wrong person?"

"There's ways to embed other types of recordings that don't use the phrase catalogue," she said. "They're a lot easier to manage. Besides, he knows her already."

"So he'll, what- go to the Strip, then presumably get sent back with a reply?"

"And supplies, hopefully," Veronica said, knocking on the robot's thick hull, a hollow sound coming from it. "It's got a little storage compartment."

"**I have a backpack**," ED-E announced, as if in confirmation.

Veronica smiled broadly, pointing towards the eyebot with raised eyebrows. "Ah! See there? That's an improvement."

"**I'm going to spit on** _your head_," it amended, then.

"No," Marcus said, inclining his head towards the robot since it had so eloquently exemplified the point he was about to make, "that was a fluke."

"**Magic?**"

Marcus looked at the eyebot sidelong. "Fluke."

ED-E didn't respond; it merely hovered quietly.

"You sure told him," Veronica said, grinning wryly.

Marcus shook his head. "Too bad it won't make a difference," he muttered, tapping the eyebot's hull with his knuckles. "Happy trails, little man," he said, then to Veronica, "and I hope you know what you're doing," turning to leave the scribe to her work.

Veronica sighed, looking up towards the eyebot warily. "So do I," she said under her breath.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>As the day wore on into evening- the eyebot long departed after recording a detailed account of the town's situation, instructions on how to record a reply placed into its storage compartment- Veronica was relieved to see the sun still out when she'd finished with a long day of wiring and re-wiring Calamity's newly-acquired computer terminal. She took advantage of the waning light by heading out to the back yard, a book in hand. It was chilly enough that she was grateful she'd kept around her heavy robes, and found the temperature to be relatively inoffensive, most of the snow that had collected in the town having melted under the afternoon sun.<p>

The book itself wasn't all that riveting- little more than an instructive guide on various non-energy weapons repairs that Raul had given her- but the chance to relax out in the open made skimming through the author's dry tutorials bearable. It seemed, however, that fate was conspiring to make the experience far less enjoyable than it had been as, from her peripheral vision, she'd spotted someone on approach.

It was Keene, carrying something she couldn't quite identify. A club of some kind?

That wasn't good.

She hadn't spoken to the Nightkin since the incident in her room, though she'd seen him a couple times when she was put to work inside the lodge. It had been relieving to note that every time they had crossed each other's paths, he hadn't barked at her, hadn't instructed his posse to stare at her constantly- but that didn't mean she wasn't still on-guard with him. Out in the yard, in the far corner of the settlement seemed like a bad place to have him approach.

It came as a surprise, then, when all he seemed intent on doing was sitting down alongside her, the object in-hand finally identified: a giant, freshly-cooked hunk of Bighorner meat still clinging to the bone, probably from the animal's back leg. That he mirrored her posture by sitting cross-legged- she did a good job of not expressing her amusement at that, but she didn't bother to fight a smile, and that smile only got wider when he tore a small portion of the meat off the bone for her.

She wasn't about to decline; besides the fact that the scent of decent food was making her stomach growl, it was clear to her, without asking any questions, that this was his version of a peace offering. Setting her book aside and wishing briefly that she had utinsels- or at the very least a plate- she didn't sully the moment by asking after any. Instead, she ate, and followed his lead by doing so in silence. And messily, true, but in comparison to Keene wolfing down his meal with amazing speed and sending meaty debris every which-way as a direct result, she was doing quite well with it, thank you. Granted, she was then posed with a new problem- the lack of a napkin- but her tunic, already in need of a wash, served that purpose where running her hands over the grass didn't.

"Thanks," she said, all the while keeping her eyes off of his.

Which, of course, lead to the second surprise- the large hand at her chin to turn her attention towards his face. She blinked, visibly bemused by the gesture- so much so that she barely noticed the grease on his fingers smearing over her skin- and, in a moment of uncertainty, searched his unreadable expression for explanation.

Either way, the message was heard; and while she wanted to ask his reasons, that seemed better left for another time.

"You're welcome," he said, letting his hand drop. "Marcus told me- told us- what you're doing. What you're planning." He paused to throw the picked-clean thigh bone over the large fences surrounding the settlement, turning back to her to say, "You intend to fight, should the invaders provoke us."

Raising her hand to rub at her chin upon noticing the smears left there, she said, "Hell yeah, I intend to fight," without reservation. "And god willing, maybe even win." She smiled a little haltingly at that, eyes turning back down to the ground. "The odds aren't good," she admitted, "but I'd rather give it my best shot, you know? If it comes to that, I mean..."

Silence.

"Your Brothers," he said finally, "they resent the NCR as much as we do."

It took her a moment, but once she caught on to his implication, there was little reason to ask him for an explanation. What he said was as much a question as it was an abbreviated observation, like so many other things he said.

She looked up at him again, affording him a half-smile. "I sat out on a lot of the big conflicts the Brotherhood had with them," she told him truthfully. "I still believed in the cause to a point, but... I wasn't sure it would make a difference." She shook her head. "Maybe it would've. I don't know."

"This, too, may not amount to anything," Keene replied, simply, tone sober.

"This is different."

"Is it?"

"Yeah," she said, looking towards the towering lodge alongside them. "This is home."

It was strange to say. The bunker had been home. The Brotherhood had been family... but this *was* different. As close to a freakshow as one could possibly get, granted, where it was endearing to sit next to a big blue schizophrenic whose meal-time etiquette rivaled that of a pack of starved hyenas, relaxing to shoot the breeze with a man whose face had been in the process of falling off for over two hundred years, entertaining to listen to a robot who had quite accidentally contracted some bizarre form of electronic Tourette's... but that suited her just fine. For all its eccentricity, her new surroundings were, above all else, incapable of being anything but honest. Genuine. Upon considering it, she'd realized that all of those things had been lacking in her former life, especially what was happening presently: acceptance. And better still, there were no pretenses, no Holy Wars or agendas, no faux-religious overtones of destiny or sworn duty.

Just- people, such as they were, as bizarre as they were.

And though they continued talking- with surprising ease, at that- her brief mention of the Brotherhood gave her a daunting sense that she'd forgotten something crucial. Something she shouldn't have ignored or put off, even in the whirlwind of events that had taken place in such a short time period.

That something announced itself well away from her earshot, however, as, winding its way through the scorched valleys of the Mojave, ED-E bleated out a Morse request to transmit.


	18. Just Don't Ask Me to Hold Your Hand

To the reviewer that said they wanted to kill Oliver regardless of allegiances: I agree. Wholeheartedly. The guy makes Douglas MacArthur look like a champ. As for whether or not the dude gets popped in the noggin, well. Guess you'll just have to keep reading to find out if it comes to that. :D

* * *

><p>[ 24 :: Just Don't Ask Me to Hold Your Hand ]<p>

* * *

><p>"Did you finally reach her?" Jameson asked as Sarah returned to their shared quarters.<p>

The Sentinel's many attempts to get in touch with the Mojave scribe had thus far been in vain, the only word they'd received back on the morning they were supposed to established further communications being a simple request to 'wait.' But the longer the days- weeks... nearly two months- had dragged on, the more the question of whether or not to remain in the Midwest had been raised with Elder Lyons. He'd agreed that if there continued to be no response, it would be best if they returned, stating that he was becoming worried about just how long the vertibird repairs were taking. It was something Jameson had been relieved to hear- that was, until the Elder allowed them the benefit of the doubt, and suggested putting some of their own scribes on the airwaves to try and walk the Midwestern engineers through the process of repairs.

That, and Sarah's answer of "Sort of," in concerns to whether or not she'd been able to make contact with the Mojave scribe, had been the nudge Jameson needed to make some noise about the things she'd seen. It hadn't been 'yes,' but it wasn't the 'no' she'd been hoping for.

"Meaning?" she prompted regardless, genuinely curious despite her misgivings.

"I didn't get voice contact," Sarah replied, making her way over to the bunk she'd claimed as her own, "just confirmation." Beat. "Came through in morse... So I guess we were right about her having a near-miss; she's seems a lot more concerned about getting caught."

"Better to be discreet in her case," Jameson mused, doing a good job of hiding her disappointment. "Did she say anything else?"

"Just that she's still interested," Sarah sighed, working off the gloves of her power armor. "Coordinating a pick-up... looks like it'll be trickier than I'd hoped it'd be, but I think we'll be able to manage it. Doing it without being _seen_, though..." She frowned, dropping both of the gloves onto the bunk she'd designated as her own. "We don't really need to give the Lost Hills any more reasons to want us dead."

"There's an entire country between us and them," Jameson reminded her. "Even if they happen to recognize us, there's no reason for them to give chase. Besides, if she's as bright and dependable as the Elder's source seems to think she is, I somehow doubt she'd go through all this trouble without selecting a decent rendezvous point."

"You just wanna get out of here, don't you?" Sarah asked, smiling lopsidedly, hitting the release latch along the side of her bulky armor.

Jameson cast a glance in the younger woman's direction. "Don't _you?_"

"Of course I do," Sarah replied, removing the heavy equipment as the servos of the armor disengaged from the body suit she wore underneath. "What kind of a question is that?"

Turning her head as the Sentinel began to remove the suit itself in an effort to afford the young woman some measure of 'privacy,' Jameson frowned, leaning her shoulder against the heavy support frame of the bunk alongside her.

"Elizabeth?" Sarah prompted her. "Something on your mind?"

Smiling faintly at the use of her given name, Jameson said, "This place," doing her best to keep agitation from coming through in her tone, "it hasn't been getting to you?"

"Should it be?" Sarah shook her head. "It's been bugging me that there hasn't been much progress on repairs, but there's not a whole lot I can do about that except tell the shop jockeys to hurry it up."

Again, the scribe went quiet.

Watching the older woman for a moment or two, Sarah's smile faded, her expression turning considerate. "Are you doing okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine."

"So it's just my imagination, then?" Sarah replied, smiling lopsidedly. "'Cause it seems to me that you've been acting real twitchy these past few weeks."

Jameson arched an eyebrow. "I've been twitchy?"

"I don't know what else to call it. First those reports on the vertibird and now-" Sarah paused, watching the scribe's expression for a moment. "I don't really know what this is, to be honest. I've never seen you act this way before."

Silence.

"Might be the lack of sleep," Jameson said dismissively, turning to face the Sentinel once she'd had enough time to dress. "I'll admit, I've been up a lot later than I should be to go through the archives... There's a lot of information I need to take down for our records back home."

"Is it really that necessary, though?" Sarah asked, straightening out the sleeveless shirt she wore once she'd pulled on a ratty pair of what- might have been BDUs, once upon a time.

"It is," Jameson replied absently. "Very."

"Even at the cost of your sanity?"

Jameson chuckled, eyebrows raised. "Aren't you being a little overdramatic?"

Sarah eyed the scribe carefully. "I'd like to think I'm capable of noticing when someone on my team's getting anxious."

Quirking her lip slightly, Jameson cast a glance towards the door, saying, "Well... at least we've moved from 'insane' to 'anxious.'"

"And now defensive," Sarah pointed out, smiling lopsidedly. "Alright, so 'insane' might've been one step too far, but you have to admit, you've been a lot more tense lately." Beat. "Is it still that thing about the vertibirds, or is it something else?"

Jameson snorted lightly, the sound humorless. "'That thing,'" she repeated dryly, turning her attention back towards Sarah. "There's a lot more to it than that. How _much_ more is what I'm still trying to figure out."

"Something you're not telling me?"

The scribe went quiet for a time. Then, "I haven't been out to oversee repairs for a while," she said, almost tangentially. "If you're really concerned about my objectivity, maybe you'd like to accompany me?"

Sarah chuckled. "I just spent all day under a hot sun with a bunch of uglies," she said flatly. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stay put for a little while."

"The enclosure they have the vertibird in isn't really that far from here," Jameson reminded her, "and I doubt that they'll care if you're out of uniform."

"Are you saying you _want_ me to tag along?"

Jameson considered the question. "I'm saying that a fresh pair of eyes applied to the situation couldn't hurt," was all she replied with.

"It's really that important to you?" Getting no answer save for a look, Sarah rose from her bunk, "Fine," sighed out in feigned exasperation. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll tag along. Just don't ask me to hold your hand while I'm at it."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Jameson said dryly, stepping out into the hallway as Sarah gestured for her to lead the way.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>Upon reaching the enclosure, it was clear that the repairs the Sentinel had been brought in to observe were no longer being conducted. The grounds were derelict, left unguarded- an oddity in and of itself if, indeed, the aircraft was being threatened with further sabotage.<p>

While Sarah granted that the lack of protection was far from optimal, she couldn't resist saying, "And I suppose this is the part where I should point out the obvious."

"I'd just like to make sure everything's in working order," Jameson replied. "With the vertibird, I mean."

"I figured," Sarah replied, arching an eyebrow. "What I'd like to know is why you need _me_ here."

"It's like you said," Jameson replied, making an effort to keep from sounding too weary, "I've been anxious. Maybe I missed something I didn't see last time; something that can put my mind at ease."

"About that," Sarah replied as they approached the vertibird. "I don't know what good I'll be with helping you out. Tech isn't my strong suit to begin with." Boarding the aircraft after the scribe had, she said, "And have I mentioned that I have no idea what I'm supposed to be looking for?"

"You've spent a lot more time in vertibirds than I have," Jameson said over her shoulder, glancing over the equipment in the aircraft's interior. "Just keep an eye out for anything that looks out of place."

"You're assuming that every time I'm in here," Sarah said, halfheartedly following suit with the scribe's inspection, "I'm actually paying attention to what the pilot's doing. Or that I could actually tell you what the navigation controls look like."

"Might not be near the cockpit," Jameson said. "What I'm looking for could be anywhere."

"Well," Sarah said under her breath, "that sure narrows it down."

"As much as I'd like to be a little more specific," Jameson said, "my specialty is literature," running her hand over the pilot's seat, her eyes going towards the throttle and pressure gages, "records. History. Most of the technology I've been trained to recognize that _isn't _armor or weaponry- well. That training rarely extends past a bare-bones understanding of a device's functionality, and that's only so it can be properly documented in our archives."

"Your point being?"

"That I'm no more familiar with vertibird technology than you are."

"I doubt that," Sarah replied, glancing towards the open hatch of the vertibird to see if there was anyone milling around outside. "Only specialty I ever had was breaking things... So I'll ask you again," she turned her eyes back to the scribe curiously, "how do you expect me to be able to help out?"

Jameson paused at the navigation controls, idly toying with a small, detachable gage near some of the display panels. After studying it, she had to inwardly chide herself when she remembered Rothchild having it installed prior to their departure; it was a signal booster for both their GPS and communication relays. A vital component, not an aberrant one.

"Hello?" Sarah said, pulling the scribe out of her reverie. "You plan on answering me?"

Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Jameson turned back to Sarah at long last, answering just moments before the Sentinel prompted her again. "I wanted to make sure there weren't any listening devices in here."

"Listening devices," Sarah repeated, eyebrows arching. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Sarah asked, squinting at the older woman curiously.

"I'm fine."

"Come on, Elizabeth- I was willing to indulge you when you asked me to come out here, but this is starting to push it."

Jameson chuckled. "That's twice now," she said, returning her eyes to the cockpit to scan over the controls a second time.

"Twice?"

"You've never called me by name before," Jameson remarked. "You must really be worried."

"Of course I'm worried," Sarah said incredulously. "I mean, listen to what you've been saying. Listening devices, this _certainty_ that-" Seeing the scribe turn to look at her wearily, she paused, and furrowed her brow. "What?"

"You really haven't noticed anything, have you?"

"Noticed _what?_" Getting no immediate answer, Sarah said, "Alright, so yes, things are a little strange around here, I've been just as concerned about the rate of repairs as you've been... but what _you're_ talking about is _tin-foil hat_ strange." Beat. "What evidence is there that they'd wanna do something like spy on us?" Jameson just shook her head at that, leading the Sentinel to let out a frustrated sigh. "_What?_"

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," Jameson said under her breath. "You're the one they've been trying to impress... I thought I understood why, at first, but now... I don't know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sarah raised her hands in feigned surrender before Jameson could respond. "Never mind," she said. "Forget I asked. Just- tell me what this is about."

"Provided you'll actually listen to me?" Jameson said, inclining her head towards the vertibird's seats. "I'd be happy to."

While Sarah had plenty of comebacks to the scribe's implication, she followed the unspoken suggestion to sit down. After that, it didn't take Jameson long to launch into the whole explanation, starting with the flagrant inconsistencies in the archives and moving on to the peculiar meeting she'd had with the General.

That in particular had given the Sentinel pause, the robot's behaviour clearly striking her as alarming, "Why didn't you tell me about that?" asked in a pointed tone.

"I wasn't sure if we were being monitored or not," was the only good explanation Jameson could give. "Granted, I probably should have-"

"You're damn right you should've," Sarah interrupted her, visibly irritated. "If I'd known-"

"What would you have done?" Jameson paused, letting out a light sigh as she eased up slightly. "Listen," she said, "I understand your concern, and you're right, I probably should have told you... but, to be perfectly honest, I'm not even sure what that was all about. It didn't seem... _overtly_ threatening, just... strange."

"I'd say cornering you in a small room is pretty threatening," Sarah remarked, eyebrow raised. "Especially at that hour."

"I'd be inclined to agree," the scribe afforded her, "if it wasn't for the fact that he appeared almost- I don't know if incapacitated is the correct word for it, but it's the closest approximation to what I saw."

Sarah paused, considerate. "Was that the only time it happened?" she asked, calming her approach in spite of her mounting agitation.

"Yes... I've spoken to the General a couple times since, and while he's been... reluctant to answer any of my questions about the archives, he hasn't displayed the same behaviour."

"And that's when you started checking up on repairs?"

Jameson nodded. "After everything that'd happened... I wanted to see if there was anything else I could point to as a sign that something was off."

"And?"

"That's the thing..." Jameson sighed, looking towards the open airlock. "I can't tell if they're being charitable with the time they're putting into systems checks and repairs, or if they're genuinely attempting to delay our departure for as long as possible."

Sarah squinted at the older woman. "I'm not discounting the possibility that what you're saying is true," she said, "but if it _is_... what do you propose we do about it? And come to think of it- why would they want to intentionally delay us in the first place?"

"I don't know," the scribe admitted, shoulders slumping as she let out a light sigh. "I wish I did."

"And in the meantime...?"

"Just keep your eyes open," Jameson said, smiling humorlessly, "and hope that I'm wrong."


	19. The Idiot is Always the Last Man Standin

Sorry for the lag-time, to anyone who's reading this. Had to do a lot of rearranging when some things came up with folks I was working with, and as a result, well. Yeah. Had to re-sort some stuff. :V

**AS A NOTE**: The first chapters (1, 2, 3, 4) have been _completely _overhauled. Nothing's changed significantly, but they've been prettied up and given a little more context than they had before. Need to fix the chapter numbering when the full overhaul is through, but I'll keep you guys updated.

In any event, thanks again to the folks who left reviews; they're much appreciated 3

**ADDITIONALLY:** Okay, my chapter numbering is fucking weird at the moment. I'll go through and change it so it's less schizophrenic, but, uh. For now, I'll keep with the original numbering scheme, I guess. o_o There's more of this story that never got posted on this archive, and I could use the encouragement to keep going. Honestly, it felt like this thing got completely lost in the shuffle.

I KNOW, weh weh, but reviews/etc matter! And sadly my pacing was fucked from the get-go, but we're working on fixing that. Until then, welp- have the rest!

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><p>[ <strong>25<strong> :: The Idiot is Always the Last Man Standing ]

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><p>For Veronica, the week had progressed quickly. Between all the busy-work that needed doing around the community and the increasingly real threat posed by the NCR- there were more scouts than usual that week, and the mutants were getting agitated in spite of their willingness to pretend like they didn't notice the presence of the invaders- it felt like time was moving at a rapidly accelerated rate. What had started out as a theory, that there would indeed be an attack on the way, had snowballed into a collective certainty, leaving many of the community's inhabitants anxious.<p>

Most of the mutants, she'd learned, were more about action than they were about planning. They preferred to confront things head on, and didn't like to bog themselves down with abstract concepts they couldn't see. Marcus, Keene and some of the others had proven to be more effective in considering their options along those lines- Keene especially had engaged her in a couple conversations about the topic that had been more astute than she'd expected them to be- but the tension that ran through the town was a palpable force. Even the Bighorners seemed to be feeling it, even if it could have been a coincidence; still, Lily had complained on a couple occasions that they'd been fussier than usual, even going so far as to stray from their pen in fits of agitation.

As the week was coming to a close, the days passing with no sign of the eyebot she'd sent out to get word to Kette, Veronica found herself just as swept up in the altered mood that had set in over the community, and after a long day of work repairing some finicky generators, she'd sought Marcus's company, if only to try and ease her mind. It didn't seem likely that he'd offer her much in the way of assuaging her uncertainty, but it always seemed better to talk the issues out than allow them to sit and fester.

Hearing his voice from the infirmary as she'd entered the lodge, she'd gone towards the sound immediately, coming to a halt at the threshold as Calamity's frustrated response to a muffled query gave her pause.

"This is gonna be hell on my research," the ghoul said, her frustration obvious as she slaved over one of the new terminals Veronica had helped her upgrade for that exact reason.

"You won't be the one fighting," Marcus had assured her, to no avail.

"You'll need anyone with a pulse behind a weapon," Calamity sighed. "Don't know how much good I'll be in that position-"

"-which is why you're better off in here," he said simply. "Look, there's a storage facility in the basement-"

"Where I'll be pinned down if the NCR gets far enough to breach the perimeter," Calamity interrupted pointedly. "I realize what you're trying to do here, and I appreciate the option, but I'd rather not be backed into a corner when push comes to shove."

"Fair enough."

It was one of the things that had been mentioned in passing over the week: the research that Dr. Henry had given Calamity to complete in his absence. There was a very real fear that the solution to the Nightkin's troubles wouldn't be discovered by the time the looming conflict had started in earnest- and an even greater fear that, once interrupted, it could never be taken back up again. The ghoul had gone through some colossal efforts to make absolutely certain that didn't happen, tasking Veronica with helping her to create a lab that could become mobile if necessary, but even that ran the risk of not being finished in time. The scribe had doubled her efforts on doing just that when she wasn't performing regular maintenance and systems checks around the town, but she was beginning to wonder if constructing a mobile unit was even possible.

She hadn't stated that aloud, however.

Broken from her reverie by the sound of Marcus sighing, her attention was caught by the words, "Can't believe I'm saying this," said to no one in particular, "but it's times like this I wish Tabitha were still around."

"Who's Tabitha?" Veronica said, then, the sound of her voice calling the attention of the room's occupants to the doorway.

The look of muted surprise on Marcus's face told the scribe all she needed to know about how distracted he was in the first place. "Nightkin," he replied. "Used to head up a squad of them back in the Master's Army. Not too bright, but, had a knack for figuring out this sort of thing. Be useful to have around for something like this."

"Ah, right... she's the one who captured Raul, wasn't she?" Veronica smiled slightly, adding, "I don't think he'd be pleased to hear you calling her 'useful.'"

"Not too sure he'd care in this case," Marcus said in a muttered aside, arms crossing over his chest as he glanced out the window, seemingly preoccupied.

Silence; the only sound between them was the soft tics of the keyboard as Calamity started sorting through more of the research laid out on the terminal's screen.

"Still worried ED-E's not gonna make it back?" Veronica observed, noting the slight furrowing of the mutant's brow.

"Not worried," Marcus replied. "Just realize we could use to have a few contingency plans on the off chance he doesn't."

"Oh-ho... do I detect a hint of confidence, there?" Veronica said teasingly.

"No," Marcus said. "Life just has a sick sense of humor about these things."

Veronica grinned. "The idiot is always the last man standing?" she posited, eyebrows arched.

He chuckled ruefully. "Something like that."

"Think you guys could talk shop elsewhere?" Calamity said irritably. "I don't mind helping out where I can, but I've got a lot of work to do, here. All this NCR nonsense is already making me cut corners; I'm gonna need all the time I can get to come to any helpful conclusions."

"Just put some thought into how you can keep at it while all the fighting's going on," Marcus told her, motioning for Veronica to follow him out of the infirmary.

Calamity sighed wearily. "I'll see what I can do," she said,

"How close is she to finding something?" Veronica asked as she fell in step alongside the old mutant.

"Not close enough," Marcus said ruefully. "I think she'd feel better about it if she knew what kind of timeline we were working with."

"Not really sure how to find that out," Veronica admitted. "For all we know-"

"They could be on our ass by morning," Marcus finished for her, to which she nodded grimly. After a brief pause, he asked, "You were a scribe, right?" pushing open the heavy lodge doors. "They ever have you guys involved in strategy?"

"Only when our numbers got low enough," Veronica admitted. "I mean... some of the scribes really took to it..."

"But you didn't."

Veronica shrugged. "Sorry. I don't really think in broad terms when it comes to fights... just how fast I can drop a guy with a well-aimed sock to the jaw."

Marcus chuckled. "It'll have to do."

"Have you talked to Keene about all of this?" she asked, coming to a halt as Marcus did along the front walkway. "I mean- he's had some tactical training, hasn't he?"

"He has," Marcus agreed. "Lot of it. Just not sure how much he can put to use."

"Might be more than you think," Veronica said, glancing back towards the lodge as the old mutant scanned the horizon.

He paused, then, looking down towards her. "What makes you say that?"

"Well..." Veronica grinned back at him, eyebrows arched. "You do kinda baby him."

Marcus chuckled. "_Baby_ him?"

"Treat him with kid gloves," she reiterated. "He's got his problems, but- I don't know. Maybe it'd help to have something to put his mind to."

Marcus watched her for a time, his expression softening, an appreciative smile spreading over his face. "Never thought I'd be hearing _you_ say that."

"I'm just full of surprises," she replied, spreading her hands.

"You understand why I'm careful with him, don't you?" Marcus said, then. "Known him for a long time... 'lot longer than you have. Putting him in that headspace again... not really something I'm comfortable with."

"Think it'd bring up the urge to hunt down more stealth boys? Bring back some bad memories?"

"Either, or," Marcus said, shrugging one shoulder. "Not sure bringing all that up is a risk worth taking."

"You might have to," Veronica said, turning her own eyes to the snow-covered slopes surrounding them. "I mean... I'd say you should talk to Lily about it, but I think she'd rather put all that behind her..."

Marcus grunted. "I'll think about it," he said. "Or you can. Just don't do it until I give the go-ahead."

"Can-do, Chief." Veronica looked to him curiously. "So... what else is on your mind?"

"About what?"

"Well... something tells me you're not just taking a moment to enjoy the scenery," she said, smirking. "You've got something on your mind. What is it?"

"Trying to get a feel for where the sharpshooters'll come into play," Marcus replied, returning his eyes to the surroundings. "Never seen the NCR go into a fight without at least a couple on-hand. In a place like this... they're gonna want them around."

Veronica pondered, scanning the area quietly for a time before pointing up towards a prominent ridge. "Would that be a good location?"

Marcus turned his attention towards the area indicated, frowning slightly. "Not sure," he said, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with his hand. "Too much visibility. Wouldn't put any infantry there- be a stupid move on their part."

"Why?"

"If we see 'em up there, nothing to stop us from blowing the ridge out from under them."

Veronica chuckled. "Why do you need help on strategy, again?" she asked. "Seems to me like you've got it covered."

"Two sets of eyes are better than one," he said, turning his attention towards some of the other small precipices along the mountainside. "Someone else might see something I don't."

It was a fair point.

"So assuming they do take that ridge," she said after a moment's consideration, "you've got the firepower to take it out?"

"Might cause a small avalanche," he said, "but yes. Got a couple rocket launchers in storage, 'just in case.'"

Veronica laughed. "'Just-in-Case' Rocket Launchers," she mused. "I like it."

"Thought about getting rid of 'em a while ago," he admitted. "Glad I didn't."

"Kinda?"

"Like I said... using something like that on the mountain range, could cause an avalanche."

"Guess it depends on the point of impact," Veronica pondered, squinting at the ridge, her hand raised to tap her finger against her lower lip. "I mean- if you managed to hit the right target, the shockwave wouldn't be that damaging."

"Would it still take the ridge out?"

"I think so... might take a couple shots instead of just one, which could be a little problematic, but... You did say you had two rocket launchers."

"I did," Marcus said. "Limited ammunition, no idea when we could get guys in place to hit the right target... seems like a bad idea. There'll be ground forces... need all the folks we can get to hold the fort."

"Wonder if you can rig them to be fired remotely," Veronica wondered out loud. "Guess that might be a little too chancey..."

Marcus chuckled. "I'd say. No telling if they'd get knocked out of place and turned towards the lodge instead." Beat. "Presents an interesting idea, though. What about planting explosives?"

"Same idea?" Veronica asked. "Just fire them off remotely?"

"Something like that."

It didn't take her long to ponder the possibility. "It could work," she afforded him. "You'd have to boost the signal of whatever detonator you're using, but I think I could jury-rig something workable. Might need Raul's help, but..." Beat. "Yeah. I think it could be do-able."

"You sure about that?"

The question made her pause for a moment. Was she? Between her and the old ghoul, they had skill to spare, but overextending that skill could prove to have dire consequences.

Brushing off her initial apprehension, Veronica shrugged, saying, "Depending on how much time we've got, I could do a test-run... make sure it works before we do anything major."

"That'd alert the scouts, though, wouldn't it?"

That... was a problem. "It might," she admitted. "Though, I mean... they might catch us planting the explosives in the first place if they're still in the area, so..." She trailed off, a slight frown on her face. "Seems like there's a lot of ways that could go wrong."

"It's a risk we'll have to take," Marcus replied ruefully. "How confident are you that you can make it work?"

"Confident enough," she said, though she didn't sound convinced of that.

"Work with Raul on it," Marcus said. "Between the two of you, you should be able to put something together."

"I, ah..." Veronica went quiet for a moment, forcing herself to keep her misgivings to herself. "I'll do that," she said, eventually. "I can... I don't know, try to draft up some plans on how that'll work... try to make sure we can avoid an avalanche."

Up until that point, it was as though the reality of the situation hadn't been illustrated to her. They'd discussed the possibility for a counterattack, certainly, had toyed with ideas for how to best deflect incoming troops... but those were conversations that had been done in passing. Now, looking at the lay of the land, seeing it for what it was- a soon-to-be battlefield- and thinking of all the potential ways in which an attack could be launched against them in the first place, she could feel herself getting nervous. It was all well and good to sound the alarm, to declare that she wouldn't be pushed around by outside forces anymore, that she'd make her stand _here_- but the gravity of those claims... she hadn't ignored it, per se, but it hadn't really caught up with her until that moment.

"What's on your mind?" Marcus asked her gently, seeming to sense her shift in mood.

"I was just thinking..." She allowed her words to trail off as she looked towards the front entrance of the small community, brow knitting slightly.

"What about?"

"About ED-E," she said, pausing to look back towards the old mutant. "How I really hope he comes back with something useful."

"He will," Marcus assured her, even if he didn't believe it entirely, his hand coming to rest at her back.

Veronica chuckled haltingly, accepting the weight of the mutant's hand between her shoulder blades, her arms crossing over her chest to ward off the chill that came with the subtle breeze, one she hadn't noticed until now.

Shaking her head, she turned her eyes down to the ground, "He'd better," said under her breath.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>Two weeks had passed. Marcus hadn't intended on ruining Veronica's day when he'd pointed out the stretch of time, and his subdued expression said as much. Same went for his tone. Didn't stop the reminder from making her heart sink, though; both of the options that came with the lack of response from the courier weren't particularly uplifting. Either ED-E had made it and Kette had completely ignored her instructions- which was likely, even if it was incredibly aggravating to think about- or ED-E had gotten shot down on his way to the Strip.<p>

"Maybe Kette's taking her time putting together a care package," Veronica had replied anyway, attempting to cling to that small shred of remaining optimism.

"And the radio silence?" he'd asked, careful in his use of tone.

"Could be she's got reason to stay quiet," she replied, though she seemed to recognize that it was a flimsy comeback. "Or not, I guess," she added, then, allowing for only a faint smile to remain on her face. "I've been trying not to think about it."

"Might need to," he said. "Can't wait on him too much longer."

The conversation had set the tone for the remainder of the day, made her seek out some form of companionship instead of doing what she was supposed to. One hour, she'd told herself; one hour to fart around and waste time, and then she'd get back to work.

When she'd made the deal with herself, she'd gone over to the Bighorner pen to see if she could find Lily, and wasn't particularly surprised to see Sally standing watch over the herd instead. The big mutant, larger than some of the others, took well to sheepherding, but for reasons that had nothing to do with the lessons Lily had given her; the tanned hides, various bowls and other random tools she'd forged from the remains of the Bighorners that had been slaughtered for food left a lingering smell on her, made them anxious. They didn't dare go near the entrance to their enclosure with her on watch, and with the number of times they'd tried to sneak out, that had been a blessing all its own.

Of Lily herself, however, there was no sign.

"Hey," Veronica called out, coming alongside Sally once she'd gotten the mutant's attention. "You have any idea where Lily's at?"

"Inside," Sally replied, casting a glance to the lodge. "She was s'posed to be back about an hour ago. Ain't like her to be late."

"Where'd she go?"

"Workin' with Ms. Calamity again," Sally said. "Been at it a lot these days. Th'ghoul says they're runnin' outta time."

Veronica frowned. "How's she been handling that?"

The mutant paused, turning her attention to the Bighorners. "Ain't gonna say," she said. "Be better if you went'n asked for yourself."

"I was planning on it, but-"

"Got distracted?" Sally said, arms crossing. "Don't you worry yourself. We all know what's comin'. M'sure she does, too."

"Well, that... sounds perfectly backhanded," Veronica said, eyebrow raised. "I'm not doing this all for nothing, you know. This is for her, too." Seeing Sally shake her head, the former scribe sighed. "What?"

Sally shrugged. "S'just land, little sister," she grunted. "S'just land. I'm all for puttin' up a fight, but... S'the people in it you gotta put your mind to."

Though the former scribe could feel herself getting defensive, the big mutant's words hit their own chord- same as Marcus's own reminder to her when he'd sat down to talk about her correspondence with the East Coast Sentinel. In all the preparations for the incoming attack, Veronica hadn't been talking with Lily as often as she had been- hadn't said much more than a word to her for several weeks, it seemed like. Now, with the tests ramping up, she couldn't help but wonder if her absence had deleterious effects.

Seemed arrogant to consider, but- "I suppose you're right," she said gently, conceding to the point.

"You got some folks," Sally went on, "seein' you as family. So... supposin's all well and good, but y'might wanna... do your best to remember, instead." Beat. "So why don't y'go in and see how the old girl's doing?"

"Yeah," Veronica said, turning her eyes to the lodge. "I'll do that."

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>What awaited her at the infirmary wasn't what she'd expected. Stopping just short of the threshold upon seeing the elderly Nightkin, she was given pause by what she was observing, startled by it. Lily was seated in the middle of the floor, legs drawn up, her hands on her knees. She was rocking absently, jaw working in an equally involuntary motion, grinding those teeth together and creaking the leather vices between them. Calamity stayed beside the elderly Nightkin until she noticed Veronica, one of her hands raised in a 'shush'ing motion.<p>

Abandoning Lily's side for the moment, the ghoul came alongside the former scribe to say, "This isn't a good time."

Veronica's chest tightened slightly, eyes remaining on Lily as the old mutant continued to rock reflexively. "What happened?"

"It's a reaction to the stealth boy," Calamity said gently. "It's... been happening a little more frequently. Not much I can do except wait it out."

"Can you slow the tests down?" Veronica said, brow knitting; the elderly Nightkin's obsessive rocking had gotten more noticeable. "Decrease the frequency, maybe? If it's having this effect on her-"

"No," the ghoul replied tersely, "and I don't need to give you the reasons why that's not possible," added, the unspoken implication plain in her tone.

Veronica turned to Calamity, frowning. "Why's everyone on my ass about that today?" she said, frustrated. "It's not like I'm-"

"Shh, little girl... don't be so cross," Lily moaned, scratchy voice almost mournful. "Please. Your grandma's so very sorry... Lord in heaven, but I wanted the best for you."

Calamity glanced in the Nightkin's direction, expression softening. "Well... I hesitate to call that a good sign, but it's a sign, at least," she sighed, raising a hand to rub at the raw skin of her forehead.

"She wasn't talking before?"

"Not this time around," Calamity said. "She has before... talks about some of her memories, though... I'm not sure if they're actual memories or a fault of psychosis. Not sure what's causing it, either, but I have some ideas..."

Pausing, Veronica watched as Lily's rocking slowed slightly; felt a light clenching in her throat. "Lily?" she asked, the volume of her voice raised slightly. "Lily, you okay?"

"Tired," Lily repeated. "Very tired."

"You sure you want to do that?" Calamity asked the former scribe in a hushed tone.

"I don't like seeing her like this," Veronica said gently.

"Makes two of us," Calamity said under her breath.

"Do you need to get some sleep, Lily?" Veronica asked tentatively, the Nightkin providing no answer. "Do you think it's safe to go in there?" she asked the ghoul, uncertain.

"She hasn't been violent before," Calamity said, "but I'd be on my guard if I were you. Just in case."

Veronica nodded, edging her way into the lodge carefully. The closer her footsteps got, the less pronounced the elderly Nightkin's rocking became; the more the former scribe could hear huffed breaths, like wheezing.

"Lily?" she tried again, tentatively placing a hand on a broad, blue shoulder.

"They're all gone, aren't they?"

Veronica paused. "Who's gone?"

"Those precious little faces... all smashed and ruined... Those poor dears, they never deserved a thing like that-"

"Be careful," Calamity warned gently from behind the former scribe.

Veronica turned to look at the ghoul curiously.

"It's what I said about memory. I've heard her talk about this from time to time. From what I've gathered, not everyone in her... community," the ghoul paused, carefully avoiding the word 'vault,' "got changed like she did. Take it things didn't go too well for some of them."

It didn't take a lot of brainpower to put two and two together on that one. "You mean-"

Calamity just nodded.

"So this is... what, a flashback?"

"In part... complete with the same auditory hallucinations the other Nightkin deal with. So this is either a very clear memory, or it's some kind of waking nightmare."

"Is it always like this?" Veronica said, kneeling down alongside the old mutant, the sound of a pained groan making her wince.

"Not always," Calamity said. "But sometimes."

And again, Veronica said "Lily?" gently, her hand running down the elderly Nightkin's bicep. "Can you hear me?"

"Grandma knows she shouldn't, deary," Lily said, "but she does. Always has."

"It's not a voice, Lily," Veronica said, feeling that knot in her throat get tighter. "I'm real. I'm right next to you."

"Oh, don't tease, little girl," Lily said, shaking her head, that rocking motion increasing again. "It's not nice. Just leave your grandma alone for a spell- she knows you're angry... knows she should've done more for you."

"I'm not- it's... Veronica, Lily. You know me. You brought me up here."

"You know Veronica's not been here in weeks, dear," Lily said. "But it's okay. Such a nice girl... tries so hard to make things right for us. Such a blessing..."

_Way to screw up, Santangelo..._ "Funny... I don't think I've been trying hard _enough,_" Veronica said gently. "But I'm here now, if you need me."

"That's sweet of you, dear," Lily said, her rocking calmed almost completely. "Making amends like this... But you don't need to make me feel better. I know she's not here."

"Lily..." Veronica was at a loss. "Look at me for a second, okay?"

"I told you, little girl- you shouldn't tease."

"I'm not teasing."

It went on like that for some time. Veronica did her best to remain calm, to convince the elderly Nightkin that she wasn't some apparition, some hallucination. Thankfully, mercifully, it began to catch on, and eventually, Lily turned to look at the young woman alongside her. Over time, Veronica had learned to look past the permanent sneer some of the mutants wore- had learned to see their expressions. And in Lily, the scribe could see those heavy brows knit slightly- like she didn't know what to do with what her eyes were telling her, didn't want to believe it entirely, on the off chance it was a cruel joke.

That look alone was enough to make her want to cry.

Slowly, the elderly Nightkin raised a hand to brush her fingers against the former scribe's cheek, confirming by touch what her gaze was leading her to believe. Relief began to filter in, and in that moment... it was like nothing had happened at all. Clarity touched a muddled expression, and the warm demeanor Veronica had come to know returned completely.

"Oh, honey," Lily said gently. "What's got you all upset?"

Veronica blinked, her confusion evident. "You don't-"

"You had another fit, Lily," Calamity interrupted, nudging the former scribe's leg with her foot to urge her to keep quiet. "Veronica was just worried about you."

"Worried?" Lily said, returning her attention to Veronica to brush a large hand over the scribe's hair. "You know it's awful sweet of you to stop by," she said assuringly, "but you really don't need to fuss over me."

"The way I hear it," Veronica said, smiling faintly, "I should be stopping by more often." Beat. "I'm sorry about that, by the way..."

"Oh, don't you fret about it," Lily said, shaking her head. "Grandma knows you got plenty on your mind these days."

"It's still no excuse," the former scribe said gently. "I'm just- sorry I haven't been around as often."

"But you're here now, dear," the elderly Nightkin assured her warmly, "and that's plenty enough for me."

Leaning against the Nightkin's shoulder and feeling a large, heavy limb curl around her shoulders, Veronica found herself wondering, however briefly, just how long that recognition would last for- and how much of an effect the accelerated testing schedule would have on that. In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if simply relocating would allow for longer breaks. If, in her convincing Marcus and Keene to prepare for a fight instead of a retreat, she hadn't already produced some collateral damage


	20. Dear Cassandra, Your Career is Over

[ **26** :: Dear Cassandra, Your Career Is Over ]

* * *

><p>Not long after the NCR had secured the Dam from the Legion, Cassandra Moore had been informed that she would be stationed in the Mojave indefinitely. It wasn't surprising; her promotion had come with the implicit understanding that she was being bound to the region's forces, and her placement, such as it was, lead her to believe that she'd made her last ascent up the chain of command. This was all well and good; given her record, she had never expected to go on past the rank of Colonel. Beyond that, it made perfect sense: she had established good working relations with those commanders in the area, far better than General Oliver had, even in spite of her reputation for being less than congenial. Adding to that was her placement allowing for a pacifying element in the region; her maneuvering against local malcontents had become known, and it was largely understood that she would act against any impending threats with little hesitation.<p>

Regardless of the reasons, that order had lead, rather quickly, to the decision to sell what little property she owned in California, property she'd told herself she was purchasing for later retirement, her possessions shipped to the Mojave not long after the sale was made. The house she'd purchased in the Mojave was humble, one in a cluster of three in spitting distance of the New Vegas Medical Clinic, her neighbors more interested in keeping to themselves than anything else. Both aspects, the relative quiet and the access to medical facilities that outpaced some of the NCR's own, suited her just fine.

One of the nearby homes was owned by a man who worked for the Crimson Caravan; the other, by a Gun Runner. Both had their local offices in the area, such as they were, and both made it a point to avoid each other where possible, for reasons that remained obvious.

Isaac was the first to say that he preferred to keep a close watch on Alice McLafferty's 'second in command,' Don Hostetler, and had stated as much without hesitation. It was advantageous for him to keep an eye on the family, she knew; McLafferty and Crimson Caravan had been implicated in a plot to ruin smaller caravans, but the way Isaac told it, the old woman had set her sights on infringing on the Gun Runners' territory as well. He didn't say who'd tipped him off, though she could guess, but stated that, just in case the crone got back to her old tricks, he was glad to have a Brigadier General nearby to mention it to; even offered her a discount to sweeten the deal, should it come to that.

He barely seemed to flinch when she mentioned that he was effectively bribing her; instead, he smiled, and said he was just being neighborly.

"Just like you hope I'll be for you someday," she'd said wryly, "is that it?"

"Well, sure," he replied, that smile shifting to mirror her tone. "You seem like the neighborly type."

Odd as it was, she'd found the whole thing rather amusing.

Thankfully for him, he seemed to understand implicitly that their mutual 'generosity' wouldn't extend past that, though the Gun Runners rarely required the same kinds of lobbyists that Crimson Caravan did back in the NCR's home state. Even better, it seemed unlikely that he would come calling; McLafferty and her cronies were doing a fantastic job digging their own grave, but the offer stood, and considering the wares the Runners had access to, she didn't so much mind the idea of making some ethical concessions here and there.

As it stood, there was no love lost between her and the old businesswoman; she never did like McLafferty, or her tactics, and at those times they'd clashed, it was clear the feeling was mutual.

It came as no surprise, then, that the Hostetlers weren't nearly so neighborly. Already burned by the NCR's decision to seize most of the Mojave, and nearly put out to pasture by the indictment against Crimson Caravan, she found that her interactions with them were tense, uncomfortable. The man's wife didn't mince words when it came to her dislike of the NCR as a whole, had even reiterated some of the more colorful rumors that had circulated about Moore's record. Needless to say, their conversations didn't last long, and rarely were they repeated, though Moore had been quick to point out that if not for the NCR, Hostetler's wife wouldn't have the job she did: serving as a Sharecropper in the nearby farmlands, as part of a recent contract with the locals.

Run-ins were few and far between, however, as Moore was rarely around during the weekdays. Her position at the Dam, the four hour walk to and from her post, made returning home on anything but the weekends inadvisable at best. At Oliver's insistence, she often made the trip with two or more armed guards, men and women that were given a few extra caps for their trouble on top of their regular pay. With the Strip so nearby, it made the 'General Walking' assignment highly sought after among the younger recruits. Though it was something of a joke between her and some of her colleagues that the offer had made her quite popular on the weekends, even if it was 'manufactured' popularity, she didn't mind the company. It gave her a chance to get to know some of the subordinates she hadn't been able to keep tabs on during the war... when she was in the mood for conversation, at least.

Lately, conversation only happened in fits and starts, as her mind was occupied by other, more pressing matters than what was happening in the daily lives of her guards. At those times the chatter was innocuous, she didn't mind conversing back and forth with them, but for the most part, she allowed them to talk amongst themselves or, alternatively, to listen to the radio, keeping up with just enough chatter to keep her flagging mood from being incorporated into the ever-turning rumor mill. It wasn't a sudden lack of interest in their discourse as it was the mounting distraction posed to her by General Oliver and Senator Morales, though 'distraction' seemed like an understatement.

Made returning to the small home she called her own less relaxing than it should have been, though it still served as a nice refuge from the proverbial snafu that was cropping up around her.

The interior of the house was comprised of four rooms, the largest doubling as both a dining and living room. A modest-sized dinner table was placed near the door leading off to a respectably stocked kitchen, though it was rarely put to use, serving more as counter space than what it was originally intended for. Two the left of the front entrance were two doors, one leading to a small bathroom while the other lead to the bedroom. Given what little time she had to spend on the decor, what little she cared to, the home was sparsely furnished, the living room sporting couches placed a ninety degree angle to one another, a school desk used as an end table set between them, and the coffee table that sat in front of them was host to a small radio for those times the coyotes outside got overzealous with their nightly yips and howls.

The main point of interest, for her at least, were the bookcases that lined the walls near the front door. It was a private joke for her that whatever she called home was merely a storage locker for the books she'd collected over the years, a collection she'd started in earnest not long after her injury. As a testament to this, both bookcases were packed with an assortment of undamaged, or even partly damaged pre-war literature, comprised primarily of nonfiction.

Some of the books had been impulse purchases, made at times when she'd seen the item on a vendor's shelf and had been unwilling to pass up the chance to expand her collection. Those titles were always shuffled to the bottom shelves, or placed in storage, though some had eventually made it onto her reading list when she'd exhausted the topics she was far more interested in.

As for the rest, the majority of the titles she had were based around history, both military and civilian, revolving around the centralized topic of pre-war America, with some periodicals from the years leading up to the Great War, though there were some nods to other countries; atlases, photographs, brief commentaries on the various cultures that existed before everything got turned on its ear.

Reading had become a luxury, however, a favorite pastime that she was less inclined to indulge. Some of the subjectmatter had allowed her one too many chances to draw parallels to what she sensed of her present situation, allusions to dead-end posts given to officers rising in the ranks of the military, and what that entailed when they became confronted with static from their superiors. Unsurprisingly, all of those instances had turned out badly for the person in her position, save for a rare few- and even those had less than happy endings attached to them.

And so, the underhanded intentions she'd seen in both General Oliver and Senator Morales' behaviour towards her, things she'd caught hints of throughout the week that followed the briefing she'd been called into, had made it increasingly difficult to keep her mind focused solely on the task of securing Jacobstown, saying nothing of those few activities she had to take her mind off of work. She was looking everywhere for more signs of duplicity, for indications of what the two had up their sleeves... had tried to puzzle out why it was they had both seemed confident enough to flaunt whatever it was in front of her.

That was, of course, assuming that her worst fears were warranted- but as the days had passed, it seemed as though the best case scenarios were getting farther and farther away.

At first, she'd thought it might be a demotion, that she was being set up to appear as though she was unfit for the lofty rank of General. As it stood, she'd been surprised by the promotion in the first place; when she'd been given the rank of Colonel, she had assumed that she wouldn't be making any further ascents up the chain of command, if only thanks to her record among the Rangers. That those missions, the ones with highly questionable ethics attached to them, didn't come into question when the President had put her on his short list, that her ascent wasn't fiercely contested by the Senate, had come as a complete surprise. Had made her slightly uneasy, if she was honest; even more so when it became clear that Colonel Hsu would be maintaining the majority of his responsibilities, leaving her with a new title, but only a few 'new' duties to pursue as a result of it.

She'd told herself her suspicions were unfounded, initially. That, like with her promotion to Colonel, the top brass was waiting for her to get comfortable with her new rank and responsibilities, and that they would slowly transfer greater responsibility to her as time passed. The campaign to take Charleston had been the only additional assignment given, however, and now, with this new development, her overall uneasiness was becoming less of a nuisance and more of a daunting specter that loomed over everything she said and did.

Never in her life had she been more aware of feeling like the ground could fall out from under her, that her every move was being watched; that at any moment, the other shoe would drop, and she'd be caught completely unaware. That feeling was amplified suddenly by a memo she'd received from Oliver in the days that followed the briefing. He'd stated that, in the interests of making her troops more compliant with the limitations that were being placed on them in concerns to weaponry, it would be better if they heard those orders from her personally; if they felt as though she was the one who'd come up with the idea. Allowing, of course, for her to state that it was in the interests of keeping the farm land 'viable.'

It was another point of blatancy that had made her stomach tighten, that slight light-headedness she'd felt upon seeing both the Senator and the General leave her office clawing at her with even greater enthusiasm than it had before.

Over the time since then, she'd done her absolute best to run damage control, tried to figure out if there was some precedent that would allow her to countermand Oliver's decision- and lastly, tried to figure out if running a revised plan of action was even possible in the first place. Drafting up a number of battle strategies while implementing all the restrictions that had been placed on her, she found that it was possible... but that it would require securing personnel that were capable of performing well beyond their pay grade. That in mind, she put in an official request to assemble teams from the disbanded Ranger units.

Her request was swiftly denied.

At that point, she found her frustration in drafting contingencies had become visible in her planning stages. She'd always had a propensity for writing out some more ridiculous plans of action when she found herself short on ideas, jotting down notes on situations that were about as likely as Mr. New Vegas announcing that he was, in fact, a sentient turnip, but recently, those had been the bulk of her note taking. She'd been careful to keep them from being sent off to her superiors, but it hardly seemed to matter; those contingencies she _had_ put into place, she was incredibly unhappy with.

Nearly all of them called to mind two simple words: twenty percent.

It was a figure that continuously flashed through her mind. Twenty percent casualty rate to deem a combat unit ineffective. Twenty percent to ensure a thorough investigation of the commanding officer and their subordinates. So far as she could tell, they were trying to make that figure a certainty. Worse, General Oliver's unwillingness to take ownership of the restrictions that'd been placed on her had become all the more distressing. Though Oliver wasn't trying to be obvious, he had a habit of being more overt than he'd intended when it came to being certain that one of his plans would lead to a guaranteed outcome. It meant he was confident.

But in what? And to what end? Was he really willing to sacrifice the men and women under her command for whatever it was he- or more correctly, he and the Senator, were intent on pulling?

Sitting out on her porch, a book and some scratch paper in hand to draft out some actual plans for the upcoming assault on Charleston, she found herself asking those questions rather than anything pertaining to the actual task at hand. A glass of scotch and water at her side, a pencil in hand, and a blank sheet of paper on her lap that she'd been staring at for the better part of the evening taunting her with evidence of her utter lack of ideas, finding a point of focus aside from all that was an exercise in futility.

To make matters worse, her normal backup plans for working around puzzling situations weren't as available to her as they would be otherwise. In most situation, the hang-ups she was having were something she'd have to spoken to Colonel Hsu about, get some input in order to jostle loose a few solid ideas, but she was hesitant to go that route. If something _was_ gong on, something that _could_ jeopardize her career, the last thing she needed to do was get him mired in it.

Sighing, she finished off her drink, looking down at the page in front of her. Nearly ready to call it a night, to wait until morning to see if any ideas sprang to mind, she heard the ham radio she'd been requisitioned as a part of her promotion begin to give off a series of high-pitched beeps. The thing had rarely been used except to check up on what was going on at the Dam at specific points over the weekend, but there it was: an incoming signal. It was odd to hear on a Saturday, much less hear it at all, but she supposed it was entirely possible that something had gone horribly wrong at the Dam, something her subordinates couldn't manage for themselves.

Raising to her feet, book and paper in hand, the pencil chucked into the front lawn in the one show of frustration she allowed herself, she walked inside, accepted the signal and stated the standard greeting she'd been instructed to offer.

She didn't have to wait long to hear a response, though the words spoken came as a surprise all their own.

"Heard we got a she-wolf on the prowl." The voice, that of an older woman, was familiar even through the brief haze of static, though Moore couldn't place it immediately. "Good to hear we still do; didn't much care for the way our boys bring 'em down these days."

Moore paused, her heart pounding in her chest, "Who is this?" said in a tone more rattled than she'd intended. "You do know this is an official channel, don't you?"

"I know better than most, honey," came the reply. "Best you didn't go asking any more questions like that if I were you, though. But, since I don't expect you to remember me, I'll give you a hint on that first one: next chance I get I'm gonna tear the hide off of the backwater bilge rat that immortalized me as havin' some freakish sex change."

_What?_

It took a moment to put two and two together, and her caller seemed to realize that would be the case. When it clicked, there was no denying why the voice was familiar: Ranger Elise, the woman credited with brokering a treaty between the NCR and the Desert Rangers, though one would never be able to tell by looking at the monument that stood watch over the Mojave Outpost. The old woman had made an incredible stink over the fact that the statue appeared male, taking it as a slight when her position as Chief was given to Hanlon soon after the treaty was formed. It seemed a little ridiculous at the time, as the statue looked like it could be either male or female, though some stated that it appeared awkwardly hermaphroditic. The general consensus was that the damn thing was ugly, regardless, but Elise had never cared to let it go.

"I'm gonna assume you bein' not-so-quick on the uptake has something to do with all the goings-on you've been dealing with," Elise said calmly after a lengthy period of silence, "but it's best we didn't talk long. I'm just calling to tell you that your old friend Jodie's looking to make amends."

As with before, it took her a moment to process, but once she thought about it, she knew better than to say she didn't know anyone named Jodie; everyone knew 'someone' named Jodie. He was the guy that dodged the draft, stayed home to 'take care' of your wife, the girl that doted a little too much on your husband, the one who was cleaning out your kitchen and making nice with your parents while you were away from home. The person responsible for a Dear John letter.

Or in her case, a 'dear Cassandra, your career is over' letter.

"Make amends how?" she asked, tentative, breaking the brief silence before the retired Ranger was forced to explain.

"By putting a scotch to all the high-and-mighty horse hockey floatin' around these days," Elise replied. "Letting you know who's been looking to take home that prize-winning pelt've yours, and how they aim to do it." A pause. Then, "Think it goes without saying that when that boy comes around, you'd do well to listen to him."

"I'll try," Moore said, brow furrowing. "It's been a while, though- how can I be sure I'll recognize him?"

"Oh, you will," Elise assured her. "Trust me. And even if you don't, he'll recognize you... you've been on his mind for a long time now."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about this?" Moore asked, in spite of herself. "Anything at all?"

A silence lingered for a moment.

Then, "Only that I wish there was something more he could do than apologize. But I thought you should know, doesn't matter what you heard about the guy, you got a good man in your corner."

Right then, Moore could feel her eyes stinging slightly, found herself having to swallow hard on the knot in her throat. Elise didn't prompt her for anything else at the moment; instead, she seemed to realize that a little time was necessary to absorb the implicit bombshell.

"In any event," Elise said after a time, "if that's all, I should get my sorry carcass back to bed. Just wanted to let you know."

"Yeah," Moore said gently. "Thanks..."

"You take care of yourself, alright?"

"I do my best."

"I'm sure you do. Well... g'night, killer. I'll be in touch."

The connection cut, then, the sound of static bleating out from the radio as Moore lowered the receiver to the desk, realizing in that moment that her every suspicion had just been confirmed.

It was just as bad, if not worse, than she expected.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>It seemed only too fitting that the morning after her conversation with Elise, Moore would be awakened by the sound of her radio squealing for her attention. Half-expecting to hear the retired ranger on the other end, she found herself surprised to hear General Oliver instead, struggling as she was to wake up. Still half-clothed, under-caffeinated, and slumped over the desk the radio sat on, she hadn't felt fully aware until she heard his reason for calling.<p>

That jolt alone had been enough to bring her to full attention, with or without her routine cup of coffee.

"You should stay where you are for a couple days," the General said. "Take a load off. There's plenty've folks who can pick up the slack at the Dam, and we need you focused on Charleston."

He'd told her she 'wasn't needed,' in so many words, left a queasy feeling in her stomach that was by no means the fault of the few drinks she'd had the night prior. Doing her best to compose herself in spite of the shock to her system, she pointedly reminded Oliver of the fact that she had none of the materials she needed at her disposal, and the hesitation that answered her spoke volumes.

"You do realize," she said, breaking the brief silence, "that those might be necessary if you want me to get any work done."

"Well," Oliver said flatly, the sound of either shuffling or simple static coming through, "if it gets to be that big a problem we can have a courier send the materials over. That howdy-doody clerk of yours knows where all of it's at, doesn't he?"

_Barely_, she thought, rubbing lightly at her forehead. "He does," she said, resisting the urge to let out a light sigh. "But I should be fine without."

"Then if that'll be all, I expect to see you in-"

"Wait-"

"Yes?"

_Don't even think about it._ "It's... nothing," she said, hand lowered back down to the table. "I'm just wondering why it's necessary to keep me home when I'd have a much easier time doing this in my office."

"Be too easy to get distracted here," Oliver said, not seeming to care that the explanation was a flimsy one. "Better to just do the best you can while you've got the time off, and let your clerk know if you need those materials sent over. You can brief me on your progress when you get back." Beat. "Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'll see you in a couple days, general. Lookin' forward to seeing what you come up with."

_I bet you are..._

The line went dead soon after, leaving her to once again stare at the radio, heart pounding against her ribcage. As with everything else, the order was absurd, and the reasons for it? For a moment, that absurdity alone made her consider the idea of shirking every responsibility she'd been shouldered with, if only out of sheer spite. It was little more than an impulse, brief, and completely ridiculous; no matter how spiteful of irrational she wanted to be, her responsibility wasn't just to her superiors.

Those plans, the ones she drafted for their approval, were of little consequence to her. It was the baseline mission specs she'd send to the commanders on the field that she'd been planning to put her focus on, specs she'd have to draft differently than she did usually. Much as she preferred to give her subordinates the bare-bones objectives with only a few suggestions, allowing them to complete their mission as they saw fit unless they asked her specifically for more detailed instructions, this was a case where that strategy wouldn't work nearly as well.

The limitations, the so-called terms of engagement, all but demanded that the attack be more coordinated than spontaneity or flexibility allowed for. Additional materials, additional strategies and guidelines, would be required.

What would come of the battle once the dust settled, however, no matter how successful she happened to be... that remained a pressing question. The only thing that was certain was that Oliver was either expecting her to follow his instructions to the letter and come out worse for wear because of it, or alternatively, he expected her to defy him. Raising from the chair to start putting together what passed for a meager breakfast and heating some water for coffee on the stove, she tried to reason with herself over both conclusions. She could be misreading the situation- could have misread that cryptic memo. 'CM' could be anyone, couldn't it?

_Knock it off,_ she chided herself, looking at the small helping of food she was haphazardly preparing as if its very appearance was an insult. _Who the hell else would they be talking about? And who else has 'BG' attached to their initials?_

Shaking her head as she turned away from her food to lean back against the kitchen counter, she scrubbed at her face with her hands, letting either of them slide down to rest at her jawline as she stared intently at the floor. There were too many signs now, signs she'd read correctly the evening prior... signs she'd already started to try and deny late in the evening. That alone was unfamiliar; flat-out denial wasn't something she cared to afford herself, at least... not when it came to her professional life. The night prior, however, she'd all but pushed herself in that exact direction with the decision to go through old memorabilia from past tours; the decision to root through what few items she's gotten from her parents, both veterans themselves, both killed in action. Read the letters her father, already long dead by the time she was born, had written for her to read over the years, one for each major birthday, some just for the hell of it. She'd been drawn to his statements on patriotism, on loyalty, on the pride he took in his job, in his duties. It shouldn't have come as any big surprise that, after reading only a few of those passages, she'd found herself in grave danger of facing the full emotional impact of what she saw on the horizon.

The only solution she had for it at the time was to wash back the knot in her throat with a third glass of scotch, indulge herself in what few activities she could to distract herself, and try her level best to fall asleep. She'd face the reality of the situation in the morning, hopefully stripped of the visceral reactions attached to it, assess what was going on, and deal with it. Try as she might to reason with herself, however, to turn that into a mantra, there was no escaping the inevitable truth of the matter: that so far as she knew, her career would be ending soon. That everything she'd taken pride in, everything her _parents_ had taken pride in before they'd left her as their sole heir at the age of sixteen, was about to be yanked out from under her.

Like it or not, she'd taken that thought to bed with her that night, long after she would have normally made the trip back to the Dam. And there, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the mournful calls of coyotes echoing in through the open window, she realized that no matter how hard she tried, no matter how tired she was, sleep was not going to come easily.

If it came at all

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>The next morning felt awkward, peculiar. Having finally gotten to sleep at a late hour, she found she'd overslept to an extent she wouldn't normally, completely thrown off of a routine that had been deeply engrained in her for years. That alone had been enough to compel her to find a solution to what had already threatened to become increasing bouts of insomnia, reminding herself that if she'd done that on-duty, Oliver and many others would know immediately that something was wrong. It was with that in mind that she made her way to the New Vegas Medical Clinic, determined to see if there was something that could, at the very least, promote actual sleep of some kind.<p>

It wasn't something she would have considered in the past, but with these recent developments, it seemed more than necessary.

The clinic was one she'd been to before, a couple years back; had visited intermittently since then, for those times she needed assistance that she didn't want put on her official medical records. The initial reason was one she rarely thought of, rarely put much mind to once she knew the preferred outcome was just short of impossible. A year after the injury that took her out of the field, rumors of a Followers doctor who specialized in implants and augmentations had caught her attention, carried the promise of a possible solution to the lack of mobility Moore had found herself faced with. Dr. Usanagi, initially wary by an NCR Colonel showing up in her clinic, had nonetheless been more than willing to look into the possibility of fixing the muscle damage, though she made no guarantees that the desired outcome would be reached. In the end, it came as no surprise that there was little that could be done about the damage inflicted.

There were too many muscles involved; augmenting one could mean over-straining another, leading to even more complications in the future, and the surgeries available were in no way intricate enough to account for that. In truth, the news had come as something of a relief, no matter how frustrating it had been at the time; knowing she had to simply accept the hand she'd been dealt rather than dwell on what had become of the past had allowed her to put the bulk of her focus into her new position. True, her thoughts still drifted back to those old glory days, with varying results, but it was never as bad as it had been.

Since then, she'd sought the doctor's counsel on a few related matters, however infrequently, but it was frequent enough that they'd settled into a routine. As Moore stepped through the clinic doors, Usanagi knew to dismiss her two guards. The general had made it no secret that she had no interest in anyone but the doctor listening in on what she requested, and Usanagi had been accommodating to that request.

"Cassandra," the younger woman greeted her as the guards went down the hall, congenial as ever, insisting on the use of her given name, "I didn't expect to see you back so soon. Here for the usual, or-?"

"Not today," Moore said as she approached the counter, casting a glance towards the hallway as if to be sure the guards were out of earshot. "At the moment, I'm more interested in seeing if you have any sleep aids."

"I do, actually," Usanagi replied, refraining from asking any questions despite the curiosity in her eyes. "I should warn you, though... it's a little on the pricey side. We only just began synthesizing it back in the Boneyard, but it's been known to help."

"What is it?"

"Melatonin," Usanagi said. "It's a naturally occurring hormone. There's an interesting story behind how we found it, actually. A while back, we found out that it's a common ingredient in Rad-X thanks to its radioprotective qualities. It was a fascinating discovery... Well. Not melatonin itself. We knew what that was beforehand, but we never imagined it could be used for that purpose. Finding that out made a huge difference, too. A lot of our hospital supplies won't last indefinitely, so we've been trying to use it strictly for producing medicines we know are in high demand, and... you don't really care, do you?"

Moore offered the doctor a faint smile. "I just want to know if it works."

"It does," she said. "Actually, you're lucky I have any on hand. Like I said, we don't really use it for anything but making new batches of Rad-X, but... since I knew it could be used to regulate natural circadian rhythms, I wanted to see if it could be used to help recovering Jet addicts. They have so much trouble sleeping while they're detoxing, and using more conventional sleep aids seemed a little too risky, so I thought that maybe-" She paused, looking somewhat sheepish. "Sorry," she said, "I'm talking your ear off, aren't I?"

"You are," Moore said dryly, vaguely amused by the doctor's enthusiasm, "and any other time, I might let you, but I'm on a tight schedule at the moment." Beat. "Are there any side effects I should know about?"

"You might stay asleep for longer than you want if you take it with alcohol," Usanagi said. "So I hear, anyway. Other than that, it's pretty harmless."

"And how much would a week's worth cost me?"

Usanagi paused, looking up towards the ceiling as she ran through the math in her head. "A week's worth..." She chewed on her bottom lip for a second. "It'll run you an even five hundred, if I remember correctly."

"Caps?" Moore said, incredulous. "You're kidding."

"It's- difficult to get a hold of," Usanagi said, smiling apologetically. "And it's expensive to produce with the equipment we have at our disposal. We have to make up for the costs we put into synthesizing it in the first place, so..." She paused a moment to consider, then said, "I can, ah- I can give you a single dose for seventy five caps, if you'd like? See if it works for you before you put that kind of money towards it."

"Let's go with that," Moore said, digging around in her pockets for the equivalent amount in NCR scrip, the money exchanged for a small packet of powder. "Looks... dubious," she commented, arching an eyebrow at the doctor. "Are you sure you should be giving this to me?"

"I know it looks bad-"

"'Looks bad' is an understatement."

Usanagi smiled faintly. "-But it's not. Just mix it in with some water, and try to have something to eat when you take it."

"If it works," Moore said, "I don't know if I care what it looks like." Beat. "You can call the guards back in, by the way. And as always, I'd prefer it if you didn't mention this on your ledger."

She knew the doctor was good for it, at least. If the Followers were reliable with anything, it was holding to their ethical standards, unwilling to break confidentiality where requested. Much as she disagreed with them on many occasions, there were some reasons she appreciated their presence- and that was one of them. It seemed as though she wasn't the only one who appreciated them, either- as, opening the door to the clinic to step outside, she came face to face with Ranger Ghost.

At the age of forty two, Ghost was four years the general's senior. At the time they'd gotten to know each other, Moore had been nineteen years old with a promising career as an officer ahead of her, and Ghost, twenty three, fresh out of Ranger training and the owner of one hell of an attitude, had been assigned to the then-lieutenant's squad to help out with missions that required a little 'extra something.' Every time they'd worked together, the sharpshooter's performance had been impressive, even more so once Moore became aware of the drawbacks that came with albinism, traits that should have significantly impaired the woman's ability to make it through ranger training. Upon Moore's own induction into the rangers, the two had become close friends, had worked closely on numerous missions throughout the years- closely enough to generate plenty of rumors, though those had never been confirmed, and lately, most people were too afraid to ask about it.

They'd seen little of each other since Moore had left the rangers, though that hadn't been entirely on accident; her resignation, the reasons for it, had made seeing old colleagues bittersweet at best, though, arguably, they were all in a better position to understand why that might be the case. Ghost, like many others, had made the transition to regular Army as the rangers had slowly started to be reassigned, further proof of how quickly the organization was being dismantled. It was odd, seeing her in First Recon fatigues, the insignia that noted her as a newly-minted Lieutenant... really, seeing her _in_ uniform had the same effect as seeing her wearing civvies.

"Well... fancy meeting you here," Ghost said to break the stunned silence. "Can't say I mind. Been a while since I've seen you."

"That it has," Moore replied, eyebrow raised. "Are you here to see the doctor, or...?"

Ghost tapped the side of her sunglasses. "Eye exam," she said. "Got enough time off to make sure I got it done on time, and the only folks I trust with these baby blues are the ones who fixed 'em in the first place."

At that, Moore gave a faint smile. "It really has been a long time," she said. "I almost forgot about that."

"If my new CO'd get off his ass and put me on a night schedule, I might've forgotten, too."

"Maybe I can talk to him about that," Moore said. "See if I can't make the process move a little quicker."

"A favor from on high, huh?" Ghost said, grinning wryly. "How many of those do you suppose I can cash in?"

"Not as many as you think," Moore replied, eyebrow raised. "What's your CO's name, again?"

"We'll get to that later. What I wanna know is whether or not you got a couple minutes to spare... been wondering what you've been up to."

"Don't you have an appointment to get to?"

"It can wait," Ghost said, glancing towards the clinic doors. "It's not like this place is in high demand, and all this is is a little routine maintenance. Make sure all the implants aren't doing anything unauthorized."

"Well... whether or not it can wait," Moore said, edging away from the door to start moving in the direction of her house, "I can't. Right now, I've got-"

"-Forced leave to get back to?" Ghost said, head canting slightly to one side.

_What?_ To that, Moore didn't have an immediate response, certain her surprise was clear on her face. "How did you-"

"You live right around here, don't you?" Ghost interrupted her, tone reverting back to casual. "Word is you bought up some property... heard it was somewhere close by."

"It is, yes," Moore said, bemused.

"'Cause I could use to get out of the sun," Ghost said, before Moore could add anything else. "And so could you."

Moore paused, watching the other woman carefully. This was a trusted colleague; what were the chances...?

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she replied, uncertainty edging into her tone.

"Trust me, Cassandra," Ghost said, expression easing. "It's a great idea. Now come on. We've overstayed our 'standing around looking natural' welcome- best get moving before it looks like we're loitering."

"Right..." Moore stepped away from the doors and began to walk in the direction of her house, eyeing the former ranger quietly.

"What's in the baggie?" Ghost asked, then, briefly turning her attention to the medicine Moore had in hand as they walked. "Looks like a party favor."

"It's-" Moore offered the older woman a slight smile, saying, "It's not what it looks like."

"Hope not," Ghost said, grinning lopsidedly. "I mean... I know generals can get some pretty peculiar vices once they start pinning on those stars, but I'd recommend against one that'd make 'Hoover Dam' a bad play on words." Beat. "Mind telling me what it is?"

"Later, maybe." Turning her attention to her house up ahead, she said, "Good to see you made First Recon, by the way. I was worried they wouldn't pay attention to where they were assigning some of the rangers."

"Not all of 'em got as lucky as I did," Ghost said, raised her head slightly to look the house over. "So that's it?" She smiled at Moore's affirmative nod, saying, "Not bad. Pretty modest for your pay-grade, though."

Moore glanced at the other woman side-long. "I couldn't justify getting anything larger," she said. "Actually looked at a couple that were closer to the sharecroppers, but those were a lot bigger than I would've liked."

"Guess that means you're still on your own, then," Ghost said as they approached the front door.

"That shouldn't surprise you," Moore replied, unlocking the door and pushing it open, gesturing for the former ranger to step inside.

"Doesn't, no," Ghost said, glancing around at the interior idly. "But you should know... you're not as alone as you think."

"That's... awfully sentimental," Moore said, incredulous, the door closed behind her, lock set back in place.

"Not really the word I'd use for it," Ghost said, her attention shifting to the radio. "Well. You know I'm always happy to see you, but..." She trailed off for a moment, leaving Moore to look at her curiously. "You get that call the other night, by any chance?" she asked after a moment, turning her attention back to the younger woman.

"I got one this morning, yes. Why?"

"Just curious. But just so you know, I'm not talking about the 'stay at home' call we saw coming a mile away... I'm talking about the one from an old buddy of ours."

The silence that fell between them was a little too telling for Moore's tastes; that she could be so suspicious of someone she'd known for years... it skirted a fine line between acceptable caution and blatant paranoia. It eased her, slightly, to see that Ghost didn't seem to take it personally.

"I'm one of the good guys, Cassandra," Ghost said gently. "Trust me. Putting on some ratty fatigues and saying a lot've 'yes sirs' isn't about to change that."

"So... are you-?"

"Jodie," Ghost said, a wry smile on her face, thumb tipping her hat in a facetious greeting. "Pleased to meet you."


	21. Some Real Solemn Face-Time

**[** 27 **::** Some Real Solemn Face-Time **]**

* * *

><p>Though asked to explain what exactly was going on, Ghost had instead opted to let the holotape she'd brought with her do the talking. Had said that explanations would come after the fact; after Moore knew what was going on. Locating a tape reader and placing it on the table and loading up the tape itself, the ranger didn't ask permission to fetch a bottle of scotch from the kitchen, her presumption earning her an odd look, one that was greeted with another tentative smile.<p>

"You might want to sit down for this," Ghost had said, a faint, grim smile on her face. "Maybe have a drink or two handy."

"It's that bad?" Moore asked, wincing inwardly at the tense quality in her voice.

Ghost let out a short chuckle, seating herself alongside the younger woman. "Worse," she said, hitting the play button on the small device.

As the former ranger poured out a couple rounds of scotch into a pair of glasses, all Moore could hear from the reader was a rustling sound- or static, maybe. Eventually, she could hear muted voices, ones that got progressively louder, ones she immediately identified as General Oliver and Senator William Morales.

"Where did you get this?" Moore asked over the sounds of the two men making small talk, looking sidelong at the woman beside her.

"I'll tell you when it's done playing," Ghost said, pulling a beat-up pack of cigarettes out of her side pocket. "You mind...?"

Glancing towards the cigarettes, Moore shook her head, "Go right ahead," said distractedly. "If it's as bad as you say, I might want one, myself."

Ghost half-smirked around the cigarette between her lips as she lit it, pausing to take a couple puffs off of it. "No one likes a quitter, I suppose."

Affording the former ranger a faint smile, Moore settled back in the chair she was seated on, arms crossing loosely over her chest. Ignoring the drink she'd been offered for the moment, her attention turned entirely to the small device that sat between them, she could feel herself getting tense, even through the preliminary, muffled small-talk.

"I don't want you getting cold feet, here, Lee," she'd heard Morales say. "And you'd be wise to remember that _you_ came to _me_, not the other way around."

There was no response, just a faint sound of pages turning, the pause giving Moore the chance to glance towards Ghost in silent question. Ghost merely nodded towards the player as she took a long drag off her cigarette, breathing out a plume of smoke to make way for a small mouthful of liquor.

"The public want someone to blame," Morales continued, pausing for a moment to reiterate- "-_needs_ someone to blame. The only way the people back home will see the benefit of this war is if _someone_... preferably someone that isn't you, answers for how many of our soldiers came home in body bags. Been raising.. ten kinds of hell over..." she could almost picturing him gesturing in an attempt to find the right words, "crimes against humanity or some... peacenik mumbo jumbo-" -another pause, complete with the sound of a lighter being ignited, a few long puffs followed up by the grit-teeth sound of his voice as he spoke around what she presumed was a newly-lit cigar- "-demanding answers from the President and anyone else who threw their weight behind the whole campaign. Now... you and I both know it was necessary to put down some roots out here, but John Q. Public doesn't see it that way. He wants someone to pay for it."

"Just doesn't seem right," Oliver said, hesitant, "laying it all on her like this..."

"We're not laying it all on her, Lee," Morales replied, purposefully making use of the General's given name a second time. "You forget, she's not the primary target. We're just... pointing peoples' eyes in the right direction." A pause; Moore could hear pages turning, heard a couple more puffs taken off that cigar. "Like here, for instance," he said. "Put all these gruesome details in the right hands, and public opinion will do the rest of the work for us."

"Son of a bitch," Oliver muttered under his breath. "How the hell did you get your hands on that?"

"Doesn't matter." Morales paused again. "You need to remember that this woman," he said, "whether or not she knows it, is out for your job-"

"That woman," Oliver said, seeming to resent the Senator's use of the word, "is one hell of a soldier, Bill-"

"-and the administration's aiming to make sure that's _precisely_ what she gets," Morales continued, as if the general hadn't spoken at all. "At the moment, the only thing in your corner is that she's an easy target; brutal enough that even the most peaceful protestors won't mind seeing her put down. And this-" a tapping sound, "-is all it'll take to make sure that happens."

"But if this gets out..." Beat. "Christ almighty... all the work she's done for us, and the best we can give her-"

"-Is a ...'peaceful' resignation," Morales interrupted again, his smile clear in his tone. "_If_ she decides to bargain. But that's her choice, not yours."

"Pretty sure I know what choice she'll make," Oliver said, "and bargaining won't be a part of it."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Trust me," Oliver said, "only thing you'll get out've her is a fight. Hell, we'll be putting together a firing squad in no time..."

"I thought the punishment for war crimes was hanging," Morales remarked, casual enough that he may as well have been talking about the weather.

Moore didn't stop herself from closing her eyes at that, absorbing the hit as best she could, only half-hearing Oliver reply, "She deserves better..." partly under his breath. "Shit, Bill, 'least you can do is make sure it doesn't come to that."

"Mm... I suppose one _is_ more dignified than the other..."

Resisting the urge to stop the recording as Morales continued- false assurances made that he'd do his best to see that hanging wasn't one of their 'options'- voice too muffled to hear the words clearly, Moore shifted in her chair, leaning forward to rest her elbows against the table, a brief look shot in Ghost's direction. "You mind if I have one of those?" she asked, gesturing loosely to the pack of cigarettes on the table, reluctant to meet the other woman's gaze.

It was a good thing Ghost wore sunglasses; she wasn't sure she could take the look of sympathy in those unnaturally pale eyes. "That was fast," the sharpshooter said, sliding the pack and a lighter over to her.

"For reasons that should be obvious," Moore said mildly.

Fishing a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it, she turned her attention down towards the holotape player, only slightly relieved by the heaviness of the smoke she drew into her lungs. Ghost, for her part, didn't offer any immediate reply; instead, she turned her attention back to the recording.

"-can't happen," was all Moore heard of a long-winded comment from Morales when she tuned back in. There was some rustling; papers being brought out of a briefcase, she'd assumed. "And you know it can't." He paused. "All those... unfortunate details aside, there's a couple other matters I wanted to go over with you today... fill in some of the blanks on these reports. Oh, and there's the small matter of her second in command, of course..."

Second in command.

Moore shut her eyes at that, breathing out the smoke she'd held briefly in her lungs. It didn't come as a shock that it wasn't just her they had in their sights, but that did little to lessen the impact... of this revelation, or anything else.

[...]

The effort it took to listen to the remainder of the recording was more than she was willing to admit. The discussion came in fits and starts- comments, here and there, bits and pieces of her history that even she had trouble following, indications of things they'd found that left going through every mission, every action she'd made through the years that could be considered even vaguely dubious. She'd already known the extent of what they knew, but some of it, even she wasn't entirely aware of, as was the nature of missions she'd been sent on during her tenure with the Rangers. Sometimes, all they told you was to get something done; they didn't have to tell you why. Often, it was better that those involved had no idea; better not to think about the moral ramifications, the ethics involved.

It was a method she'd employed with her troops on some occasions, during those times she'd sent them to complete tasks that, in the sober light of day, would leave them questioning whether or not the ends justified the means. It wasn't their place, or responsibility, to know, or wonder; that was her responsibility, one she never dreamed of turning against them. It had never occurred to her that the protective ignorance that had been granted to her by her superiors might some day be used against her- that she might be saddled with not only the results, but the intention behind it. Oliver had access to all that information, had all the tools necessary to fabricate as many damning stories as necessary. Knew the bullet points in her history that she was neither proud of nor regretted... ones that she'd hoped to keep in the past, away from public knowledge.

And here they were, ready to out all of it.

The best she could do was keep her mind off of that fact; go back to the implication that the administration- maybe even the President himself- wanted Oliver out of his position as General, hints that she was being groomed to take his place, in spite of the information they were outlining. Deliberate over the question that raised; namely, what the hell had Oliver done to make _her_ the better choice?

It was a question not even Ghost could answer, once the tape concluded; they were following what few leads they had, she said, but it was something the administration was keeping well under wraps. An embarrassment of some kind, maybe, something to do with the recent victory in the Mojave, or the years leading up to it. As keen as Moore was to speculate on those small details, Ghost, with all her usual bluntness, got her back on track, pointing out to her the reason behind the mandatory leave she'd been placed on. Morales and Oliver were keen on conducting interviews of some kind, something that would let the Senators back home know how their troops were faring. Similar interviews were being conducted at McCarran and some of the other posts, apparently, but Colonel Hsu, along with the other commanders, hadn't been given the same order to stay home.

"Not unusual to have politicos sniffing around," Ghost said, "s'pecially during an election season."

"I don't know what use Morales would have for it," Moore said, doing her best to maintain her equilibrium. "He's not up for re-election."

"No," Ghost said. "But Kimball is."

"Not until next November."

"You know as well as I do that there's no time like the present to start up a smear campaign... give the folks back home something to turn over in their heads as they're prepping the new candidates."

"Guess they'll have to," Moore said absently. "They weren't able to pass the bill on term limitations..." She trailed off; the thought was a dead-end, another distraction. Then again, so was, "By the way, since when did you get so interested in politics?" but that hardly stopped her from asking.

"Since they started dicking over the people I care about," Ghost replied bluntly, no matter how understandable the desire to get off-track. "Listen, whatever Kimball's doing, it's not sitting well with some of the cronies they got lurking around Shady Sands. They want him out, and they're looking to use anything they can get their hands on to make sure that happens. You, Hoover Dam... that's all a part of it. And this whole 'interview' thing? Is just the beginning." Beat. "Take it Oliver didn't mention anything about it when he contacted you."

"Not a word," Moore said. "Not that that's any big surprise." Raising a hand to run it absently through her hair, fingers tracing a faint line down her jaw and coming to a halt at her chin, she just looked at the holotape reader blankly; Ghost allowed for the pause, realized full well that what the soon-to-be former General had just heard was plenty to digest. "And I suppose," she said eventually, the bitterness in her tone just barely masked, "that the goal of this is to assess how they feel about me, specifically? See if they can't add some proverbial fuel to the fire?"

"That'll be part of it, 'least... so far as Morales is concerned. But they're not gonna come right out and say that it's what they're looking to hear. Gotta make sure it looks like it's all on the level so none of your men go squealing to you about it when you get back; make 'em feel like it's _them_ they really care about, give 'em a warm, fuzzy feeling to take home with them."

Resting her chin against her thumb, forefinger drawn lightly over her lips, every move speaking of agitation rather than contemplation, Moore considered what few options she had. She liked none of them, but that, too, was no but surprise.

"How did you find out about this, anyway?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the reader.

"Better you didn't know," Ghost said, the reply earning her a curious look from the younger woman alongside her. "I'd like to tell you, believe me... but the farther away you are from all've this, the better off you're gonna be."

Arching an eyebrow, Moore said, "Define 'better off,'" her tone dry. "And what do you mean by 'farther away?'"

Ghost paused- and smiled, slightly, expression somber. "The less contacts you make," she said, "the more they'll keep at it like it's business as usual. If they think you know- I mean, _really_ know what's going on, they'll make a move before you're ready to deal with it."

"And neither you nor Elise has found anything that could circumvent the- intended outcome?"

At first, Ghost didn't reply; instead, she seemed to deliberate on her answer, hesitant to say anything, one way or another. Then, "Be better to think of Morales as a mouthpiece," was said gently, "and try not to get your hopes up. This thing... whatever it is... it runs pretty deep."

Those words, the recording she'd heard... though she'd absorbed some of it, the shock was still waiting in the background, ready to seize at her thoughts. It would've been easy to succumb to it, invite it in- but allowing for that, for the inevitable crash that would come for it, wasn't a luxury she could allow for. Not now.

In lieu of that, only one question came to mind: "What's my best case scenario?"

And reluctant though she may have been, Ghost, at the very least, gave her an answer.

[...]

"Are you gonna be okay?"

The question was ridiculous, posed as Ghost prepared to leave Moore to her thoughts, leave her to consider what she'd heard- but she'd given her reassurances that yes, she was fine, all the while thinking, _Oh, sure,_ in the back of her mind. _I'm fine. Everything's fine. I have the option of choosing from several promising new careers, after all- as a prisoner, as fertilizer or, potentially, as a permanent fugitive. Life's just a bed of roses, isn't it?_ And after several hours of waiting, turning those unfortunate realities over in her mind, she found herself pushed to do something about what she'd heard. Take matters into her own hands, in what few ways she had available to her.

One was clear- the other... was unfortunate, but necessary.

Later that evening, walking the streets of Freeside, the fading sunlight illuminating the figures of derelicts coming out for their usual rounds of nocturnal predations, she had to wonder, briefly, what Hanlon would say about the situation. If ever she could use the old man's guidance, as much as she hated to admit it, it would be now. Even more, she hated the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, he was right to try and sabotage the campaign in the Mojave, that he knew something she didn't.

Make the people back home look at the reasons for engagement. Make them examine it, determine its worth.

It wouldn't matter, in the end. Public figures had a way of swaying the national discourse; had a way of making it appear as though it had all been necessary, no matter what could be found in the fine print. Progress, rerouted by the pursuit of fleeting, material goals, the same ones that had nearly sucked the life out of civilization in those years prior to the Great War. _Had_ sucked the life out of it, the results demanding immediate change, or sudden death.

Dismissing the thoughts that followed as hyperbolic, as rhetoric- she was upset, much as she hated to acknowledge it, but there was no need to go overboard- she stood at the gates of the Strip, hearing the tinny music from the loudspeakers and the sound of voices coming from the other side, telling herself that her thoughts held no epiphany. And there, listening to the droning of the Securitrons, the hollering on the Strip, her head forcibly cleared of the questions that dogged at her, she centered in on one sentiment alone:

_You'd better be ready for this._

She knew that once the decision to follow through on her intent was made, once everything had been set in motion, there was no turning back. But the alternative, staying on the 'right' course, hoping that by some miracle 'Jodie' and Elise could put an end to her predicament... ready or not, refusing to do anything and simply hoping for the best was no choice at all.

It left her in the same place as the society the Republic sprang from, odd as that was to consider: immediate change, or sudden death.

That in mind, she took a breath- and began to walk towards the Strip's gate.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Wednesday night.<p>

As always, the Strip was never hurting for patronage- but tonight, a bulk of those patrons had flocked to the street outside the Lucky 38. What had normally taken place on Mondays had been moved to Wednesdays for reasons that revolved around the meeting the Mistress of Ceremonies had been pulled into with General Moore. There'd been some speculation as to what else had been talked about inside the Lucky 38, of course, but no one could come up with a viable answer, save to talk shop about what the courier had collaborated with the NCR on prior to the battle of Hoover Dam.

Thus, the rumor mill had grown rather bored with the possibilities that surrounded the briefing, especially once those responsible for perpetuating it received word that Kette had, in fact, changed the regularly scheduled times of her not-so-little 'gatherings.' Something about the mid-week placement that allowed the courier to dodge out of the overtime fees, that since there were no carry-overs from the weekend shift, the NCR would still get stiffed with the time-and-a-half paychecks. The only thing the local officials could hope for was that the 'block parties' would begin to lose their novelty- and slowly but surely, they were. However, there was still enough of a crowd gathered to make it a nuisance. Just enough to encourage the courier to keep at it.

Not that much was needed in the first place, much to the NCR's irritation.

Standing atop the Lucky 38 awning, Kette surveyed the small crowd before her. Behind her, the newest addition to her 'sermon'- the eyebot many had seen tailing her earlier in the year- its appearance only too memorable in spite of its recent absence- hovered quietly.

The courier cleared her throat as loudly as she could and the sermon began, "Ladies! Gentlemen! Undecideds!" only a slight pause made for dramatic effect. "...I'd like to get serious here, if I may," she continued, either of her hands draped over the golf club propped up in front of her. "I feel we are all in need of some real solemn face-time-"

"_-out of my face!_," the eyebot beside the courier bleated, much to the crowd's bemusement.

"You'll have to forgive him," Kette said, reaching over to pat ED-E's hull. "The Reverend's had a long journey, and it makes him sad to see so little enthusiasm." She looked amidst the sea of blank faces staring back at her before clapping her hands and pointing towards the open lunch boxes. "Come on, people, I'm serious, here! Those collection trays ain't gonna fill themselves, now, are they?" Seeming to realize that the Game Was Afoot, the crowd hurriedly threw an assortment of caps into the lunch trays. "Remember," she said, "just twenty-five a piece. No more, no less. Can't have arbitrary numbers and make this work, now can we? ...But keep those bets coming, seriously."

Pleased to hear the partition gates open and see more people filtering in through her peripheral vision, she cleared her throat again, looking around as the newcomers took their places, adopting a chiding tone to say, "You guys really skimped last time. I hope things're better this time 'cause, honestly, I'd _hate_ to see our guest be anything less than impressed with your _zeal_ and _devotion!_ Our guest whose well endowed honesty hides behind _no_ fig leaf," a point she made with her golf club jabbed in the direction of the eyebot's low-hanging cannon. "Eh? See?"

Getting little in the way of reaction, Kette straightened slightly, taking the silent rebuke in stride. "Alright," she conceded, "I hear you. I get it. You're doing the 'temperance' thing tonight. That's alright, I can work with that. The big titty committee shaking their funbags behind you might not be too happy about it, but that's not my problem."

"See if I'll be _your_ towel boy again!" one of the strippers shouted from her spot outside Gomorrah.

"Hey!" Kette called back, "interrupt me again and I'll use you as target practice!" Beat. "Not with anything that'd really hurt, guys," she assured the crowd, "honest. Seriously, don't hit strippers. It's bad. I wouldn't recommend pelting them with gourd seeds, either."

"-**her*hungry** _Fluff*bursting with_ **seeds**," the eyebot announced.

"Or that'll happen," Kette said, pointing her club at ED-E with a sage nod. "Anyway- since I can see you're all just _aching_ for something new, something _real_- something you've already got a taste for... let the immortal words of _Reverend Eddie_," she gestured more emphatically towards the eyebot, "entice your hungry spirits!"

"**The- The- The *hungry*snack*never*hides,**" the eyebot ... 'replied.' "_So ask yourself,*why wont*a bad batch of that crap_ **shit*magical*teeth!** **And** _why wont_ **the Teeth!*shit** _your_ **bees?**"

Kette nodded, idly rubbing her chin with her free hand. "All good questions, am I right?" she asked the utterly dumbfounded crowd. "So tell me more, Reverend Eddie," she said to the robot. "The good people clamor for your wisdom, and- what's that you say? Bets?" She leaned over and held her hand up to her ear, nodding every once in a while for good measure. When she straightened, she cleared her throat, and said, "He's right. This display's got _sad_ written all over it. He was _told_ the congregation were gutsy men and woman of chance! And here you are making a goddamn liar out of me!"

"-_a couple old recordings*bursting*the*boy!_" ED-E interjected, "**its*apples*shooting** _on*some spent ammunition, and*rifles_ **plundering** _their_ **teeth!**"

"And no one wants that!" Kette continued for the robot. "So come on. It's a low risk game, folks. No fake-outs, no set-ups- hell, Ms. Pasties back there-"

"I told you not to call me that!" the stripper shouted back.

"-made a _killing_ last time around." To that, there was no argument. "So come on, boys and girls. Get in while the gettin's good. And let's hear some numbers out there!"

Immediately a flurry of shouted numbers rose up from the assembly. Going around for one more pass to make sure everyone's number was accounted for, Kette nodded her head, and turned to the eyebot alongside her.

"So what do you say, Reverend?" she asked it, taking hold of the golf club to line up a shot. "Is it gourd-spankin' time?"

"-_maybe it's_ **Cakes** _hamming*my*heart cram,_" ED-E replied, "_tin cans_ **Hitting** _on*his_ **Fancy*shit,** _or maybe it's*spankin'_ **a backpack**. _But that's not accounting for the possibility that*your_ **bees*never*fuck.**"

"Leave my bees out of it, Eddie," Kette warned him, settling into position and winding up for the shot. "_Fo-_"

She hadn't even gotten the word out when out of nowhere, an all-too-familiar, all-too-_pissed_ voice shouted, "_Hazhir!_" the shock of it causing her every muscle to seize up.

The jolt that went through her caused the golf club to slip briefly from her hands; and while the whole thing might have been visually entertaining to those still watching, her flailing attempts to catch hold of it again without pitching herself straight off the awning proved to be an exercise in futility. Giving up on regaining her hold on it, she let the golf club clatter first to the awning and then, unceremoniously, onto the ground.

There was no need to guess whose voice that was. The only woman to _ever_ use Kette's last name with that kind of vitriol was the same one stepping out from the crowd with an intensely irate expression on her face.

Namely: one Cassandra Moore.

"_Get down_ from there," she barked at the petrified young woman. "_Immediately._ And bring that tin can of yours down with you. As for the rest of you-" she glanced towards the crowd as Kette made a valiant effort of getting down from the awning as quickly as possible without incurring a massive head injury, "get your money and get out of here. The show's over."

The crowd didn't need to be told twice- and if only out of spite, the general didn't bother to remind them to take only what they put into the lunch boxes, regardless of Kette's feeble protests. Turning back to Kette as the young woman straightened out her clothing, Moore approached, using what superior height she had to stare the girl down the moment they were in close proximity. _That_ look... was one that Kette was positive she could have gone an entire lifetime without seeing.

"Inside," Moore snapped at her. "_Now_." Kette blinked, and just barely had time to get out a single syllable before she was shouted down, a sharply-stated "_Move_," damn near making her heart skip a beat.

However slow on the uptake, the courier, like the crowd, didn't need to be told twice.

[...]

To Moore, it seemed only too fitting that, as the two of them walked towards the entrance, the eyebot that floated blithely behind them announced, "-**you never know what's*prancing*up the mountain.**"

If the statement weren't so daft, it might have been prophetic.

As aggravated as Moore was by the courier's determination to make life even more complicated than it had already gotten throughout the day, she did her best to reign in her temper as she entered the Lucky 38, but Kette- as usual- had ways of making that incredibly difficult.

The question, "Did I do something wrong?" served as a prime example of that particular talent. "I mean... this isn't about the tax codes, is it? 'Cause I swear, I've been-"

"Have you gotten in touch with Veronica yet?" Moore interrupted with a raised voice, a sharp look shot in the young woman's direction. "It's been well over two weeks since we talked about this- I expected to see some progress by now."

"I think that's the first time you've called her by name," Kette remarked, smiling lopsidedly, the expression fading once she saw the impatient look she was receiving. "I mean- Yeah." Glancing towards the eyebot for a moment, and returning her eyes to the general reluctantly, she said, "Yeah... I was meaning to get in touch with you about that."

"When? Next week? A month from now, perhaps?"

Kette squinted slightly, visibly trying not to get defensive. "You didn't exactly give me a time frame you wanted me to-"

"I said it was urgent," Moore said sharply. "Typically, when someone says it, they don't expect it to be a concept that's open to interpretation." Having to forcibly reign in her impatience, saying nothing of the urge to start pacing, she tamed her voice, and said, slowly, as if speaking to someone who could barely understand proper English, "Now... do you have anything to report... or don't you?"

"I haven't talked to anyone directly," Kette admitted, looking properly chastised, "but I've at least made _a_ contact," added with a loose gesture made in the eyebot's direction. "Veronica sent him along with a sweet new voice module."

'Sweet new voice module.'

Resisting the urge to palm her face at what _that_ implied, Moore found herself cut off well before she could so much as open her mouth to speak, an abrupt burst of static calling her attention to the robot alongside her.

"-**crispy*bees- are*** _ramming* our_ **meat** _to make* that* fun*open market- cut* pen pals_," it stated blithely, and paused, as if to consider. If Moore hadn't known any better, she would have sworn the damn thing was glancing from side to side. "_And_ **bees**," it concluded, as if that somehow clarified everything.

Moore paused, staring at the eyebot blankly, and made it a point to ignore the slight smirk on Kette's face. Then, turning to the courier, she asked, "Is there any way we can talk about this _without_ the insightful asides from the peanut gallery?" as calmly as possible.

"There's the VIP lounge," Kette said, fighting off the faint smile. "Personally, I kind of like the asides." Getting little more than an annoyed look in response, she shrugged. "You stay put, ED-E," she told the eyebot, motioning for the older woman to follow her as she made her way towards the stairs. "I'll be back in no time."

The robot flicked its antenna in recognition, and obediently, it remained where it was as the two women ascended the staircase. Glancing back in its direction for a moment- and seeing it turn to face _her_ as if noticing the attention she was giving it, Moore couldn't help the slightly sick feeling its presence was generating. In and of itself, she couldn't have cared less about the robot, had seen it with the courier before tonight, but what had been said about it...

"Something wrong?" Kette asked, noting the lapse in silence, as well as the general's slight pause.

"I was just wondering," Moore said distractedly as she stepped into the lounge, opting for a more casual route in the hopes that it might stave off a sharper outburst, "why you or anyone else would name a robot 'Eddie.'"

"Well, technically, it's not 'Eddie,'" Kette replied over her shoulder as she made her way to the lounge's bar. "Actually, it's a set of initials. Ee-dee-ee."

"And what's that stand for?"

"Enhanced- ah..." Kette paused, pace slowing slightly as she stepped behind the bar. Once it finally clicked, she said, "Enhanced duraframe eyebot. He's a prototype."

"Whose prototype?"

"Well- don't hold it against the little guy," Kette said, grinning lopsidedly as rummaged around for a clean glass, "but he came from the Enclave. I just happened to have the right parts to fix him when I found him laying around in Primm and, well... the rest's history." She paused, then, turning to look at the older woman curiously. "But you didn't come here to talk shop about ED-E, did you?"

Of course it'd be Enclave. That... just figured.

"I certainly wasn't expecting to," Moore said blandly, placing either of her hands on the bar top. Noting the look of question on the girl's face, she said, "It doesn't happen to have any on-board weapons, does it?"

"Fully operational laser cannon," Kette announced. "It's why he's a 'he," added wryly. Clearing her throat upon getting yet another look of impatience, she said, "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just wondering how much you remember about the talk we had prior to this," Moore said, nodding once as Kette raised a bottle of scotch in silent question. "One of the primary reasons I wanted you to establish contact in the first place?"

"More or less," Kette said curiously, pouring out a couple measures of scotch into the procured glass.

Fixed with a prompting look from Moore, the courier looked uncertain about what was being silently asked of her as she slid the drink over to the general, a complete lack of recognition on her face.

"I really have to spell this out for you, don't I?" Moore said, eyebrow raised. "Do the words 'evidence of modified equipment' ring any bells?"

"Well, yeah, but-" Kette faltered again, looking for all the world like she'd just swallowed something rotten. "Oh." Beat. "Oh, come on. I'd hardly call the voice module a 'modification'- Veronica said herself it barely works right. I mean, me personally, I think it's just fine the way it is, but, that's just my opinion."

Another long pause spanned out between them, the courier again left to appear on edge.

"So, just so I understand this correctly," Moore said, sardonic, doing little to hide her irritation, "are you really trying to tell me that it's not a big deal, simply because you _say_ it isn't? Tell me, is that the same backwards logic- or, excuse me, the same _'expert opinion'_ that lead you to decide that what I deemed urgent, you deemed negligible?"

"I didn't-" Kette furrowed her brow slightly. "Just... hold up a second. I haven't been negligent, alright? I took you seriously when you asked me to do something about it."

"And have you?"

"Like I said, I made some contacts... ED-E wasn't the only one. I just haven't gotten in touch with Veronica directly."

"Contacts," Moore repeated. "Ones that can help get her out of the area?"

"I think so," Kette said, shrugging. "Might take some doing, but I think it's possible."

"I didn't come here to hear words like 'might' or 'possible,'" Moore said irritably. "Before, you indicated 'definite.' What changed?"

"Nothing," Kette said. "It's _probable_, just don't know if I can guarantee anything."

"Try," Moore said flatly. "In the meantime," withdrawing a slip of paper from the pocket of her slacks, she said, "I want you to give Ms. Santangelo this frequency when you speak to her," and offered it over to Kette. "Just make sure to tell her not to contact me outside of the times I've listed. Get it done tonight, if possible... tomorrow morning at the absolute latest."

Picking up the slip of paper as Moore took down a sizable amount of the scotch poured out for her, Kette looked it over curiously, the furrow in her brow deepening slightly. "Can you tell me what it's about?" the courier asked, raising her eyes to the older woman.

"Is that your way of saying that you won't pass it along unless I give you that information?"

"No... I'd just like to know, is all. She _is_ my friend..."

"That aside," she asked, then, eyebrow arched in query, "can you think of a single good reason for why I _should_ tell you?"

"I've... been helping you?"

The comment was absurd; and as a result Moore had an incredibly hard time keeping the urge to laugh in check. "How?" she asked, managing to maintain a straight face.

"I made the arrangements you asked, for one," Kette said. "And I've been keeping all of this pretty hush-hush-"

"Is that what you call what I saw outside?" Moore asked pointedly. "'Hush-hush?' Are you trying to tell me that flaunting a piece of _modified_ Enclave technology, a _robot_ that's fitted with a fully operational energy weapon-" -again, there was that urge to laugh, the exasperated smile she wore met with incredulity by the courier- "-_and_ uses a voice every member of the Brotherhood would recognize, actually qualifies as _discreet?_"

Kette paused, uneasy. "The Brotherhood's seen me with ED-E before," she said tentatively. "And- even if they hadn't, it's not like they can find out _when_ he got modified. Besides, I-" Pausing again, seeming to realize that her assurances were going nowhere, she frowned. "Listen," she said, adopting an apologetic tone, "I get why you're a little put off by that, I do- I should've thought about it. But I don't think it's going to be that big a deal."

"Really," Moore said, smile fading. "How did it get here? Did it travel on its own? Past the I-15, perhaps?"

"I- think so."

"And are you aware of the fact that the Brotherhood's been patrolling that stretch of road? Or did that slip your mind, as well?"

"I'd heard about it," Kette admitted. "But, come on... the chances of one of those patrols running into ED-E-"

"Are enough to warrant concern," Moore said sharply, easing slightly when the courier seemed to legitimately consider the idea. "I didn't get where I am by ignoring what's 'unlikely,' Ms. Hazhir," she continued, voice softened, remaining even. "And arguably, neither did you... but it seems to me that your latest victory's gone to your head. Made you complacent- forgetful."

Though she looked uncertain of whether or not she wanted to ask, Kette said, "Are you saying you don't trust me anymore?" her tone reflecting her expression.

Finishing off the remainder of her drink, with little mind put towards the fact that she'd easily thrown back three shot's worth in the span of so many minutes, Moore said, "Among other things," as she straightened, the glass set on the bar top. "Just give Veronica the frequency. And the moment you get word that your 'escape plan' is a done deal, I want you to contact me so we can go over it in its entirety. I don't want to leave any loose ends when this is finally over."

"Yeah," Kette said gently, still mildly dazed by the hit she'd taken. "Sure. I can do that."

"Then I'll expect to hear back from Ms. Santangelo by tomorrow evening," said flatly. "If it turns out that you're incapable of getting in touch with her, however, leave me a message at the Embassy tomorrow evening. Something discreet... preferably with the back taxes you owe on your profits."

With that, she turned to leave, catching sight of the courier's hand raising slightly, as if that would somehow stave off her departure.

"Wait," Kette said abruptly, scurrying out from behind the bar. "Hold on. You can't just _leave_-"

"I can't?" Moore replied dryly, eyebrow raised. "That's news to me."

"I just-" Kette met her gaze directly, expression- almost hurt, something that came as a slight surprise to the general. "What did you mean, 'among other things?'"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out if you put your mind to it," Moore replied flatly, ignoring the small part of her that bid her to ease back, to give the girl some breathing room. "But if you'd like me to go over all the relevant points in detail, I'd be more than happy to oblige you."

That stricken look in the young woman's eyes stayed constant, at that, confusion evident. "You don't think I can do this, do you?" she asked, brow furrowed. "You're not even going to give me a chance-"

"Right now, I don't have a choice in the matter," Moore retorted, voice more weighted than she'd intended. "Like it or not, I _have_ to give you that chance."

"But you don't think it's likely."

"I think you'll be more of a hinderance than a help if you keep on the way you're going," Moore said bluntly, catching hints of some peculiar tones echoing from the front entrance, "but that doesn't change the fact that you're a necessary-" She paused, turning her attention towards ED-E at the same time Kette did. The tones persisted, then, the sound of them bidding the general to turn sharply towards the courier to say, "That's Morse code, isn't it?"

"That's what?"

Falling silent for another long moment to listen and shushing the courier's attempts to make heads or tails of what was going on, she heard the eyebot provide the answer that Kette couldn't. It _was_ Morse; it had to be. Even several years out of her tours fighting the Brotherhood, the sound was unmistakable; it was one she and her everyone else that served at that time had learned to listen for, one that invariably signaled a retreat, a request for help- or in some cases, an incoming shock attack.

"I'll explain later," Moore said abruptly, leaving her unfinished drink on the bar to make her way downstairs. "Do you know how to establish a voice connection?" she said back over her shoulder, the courier following behind her.

"Wait- what's this all about?"

"Answer the question. Can you or can't you?"

"I think so..." Kette said, appearing mildly dizzied by the sudden shift in gears. "That was part of the instructions Veronica gave me on how to-"

"Do it."

"But-"

"_Do it,_" Moore insisted, the eyebot still bleating out the tones once they were in close proximity.

Kette sighed, moving towards the eyebot to fiddle with some of the controls, cursing under her breath when it failed to do anything but cause a sudden burst of static. And while it seemed like a fluke for all of a heartbeat, what followed next made it clear she'd done it correctly.

"Scribe Santangelo?" Beat. "Scribe Santangelo, do you read me?"

The speaker was female, one that Moore didn't recognize, but that came as no big surprise. "This wouldn't happen to be one of your 'contacts,' would it?" she asked the courier.

Kette blinked, glancing between Moore and the robot bemusedly.

"Never mind," Moore said, shaking her head. "Just answer them. I want to hear what they have to say."

"But I-"

"How many times do I need to tell you?" she snapped, exasperated. "Just _do it._"

Kette complied, albeit grudgingly. What the two of them heard from then on out- came as a genuine surprise. Of all the oddities, all the unlikelihoods that Moore had confronted throughout the last few days, the conversation that followed was, by far, chief among them.

Where it would lead was as unpredictable as ever- but at the very least, it presented the possibility that there was some dim hope for a decent outcome


	22. And Now You're Touching Me

**[** 28 **::** And Now You're Touching Me **]**

* * *

><p>The beginning of the conversation had been, understandably, peculiar; Kette, doing her level best to do a spot-on imitation of the former Brotherhood Scribe, combined with the speaker's reticence to confirm who they were, even in spite of the courier's claims that static was making it difficult to discern, had made 'introductions' slow-going. Eventually, the speaker conceded, citing 'Veronica's' own odd-sounding voice as reason to believe that perhaps, there was an equipment malfunction.<p>

Ironically, the name offered all but caused _Kette_ to malfunction, a point of curiosity that turned the bulk of Moore's attention to the stunned girl alongside her, rather than the objective at hand.

Sentinel Sarah Lyons, of the Citadel; it sounded not unlike a Brotherhood designation, though it wasn't one that Moore was familiar with. Lyons had inferred more than a couple times that Veronica had contacted her, and that communications had been dodgy, at best. Kette, attempting to give what feeble reasons she could for the disconnect, slipped on more than one occasion to uphold the slipshod imitation she'd attempted to put forth, stammering out her responses and losing even greater footing whenever she seemed to realize that she was faltering. In the end, no matter how many pointed looks or sharp nudges she got from the general at her side, Kette couldn't, for the life of her, stave off what inevitably followed: the angry demand for proper identification from an already wary Lyons.

"It's- Kette, Sarah," the courier said tentatively, reluctantly. "Kette Hazhir."

Silence. Uncertain of where the revelation would lead, Moore kept any guesswork to a minimum, waiting for a response before making any assumptions.

"This better be a joke," the Sentinel replied, finally, sounding none too pleased with what she'd just heard.

"It's not," Kette said. "Veronica's a friend of mine."

"Sure she is," Lyons growled. "What the hell is this, Kette? Some half-assed attempt to screw with us?"

"What, you think I've been pretending I'm her this whole time?"

"You haven't given me much reason to believe otherwise."

Moore fought the urge to smirk faintly, at that; Brotherhood or no, whoever this Sentinel was, she was sharp. A good sign, if ever ther was one.

"Listen-" Kette paused, frustration visible in her expression, "if it were up to me," she said, "I wouldn't even be having this conversation. You'll just have to trust me that I'm not the one who contacted you in the first place."

Lyons snorted audibly, the sound derisive. "I don't _have_ to trust anything," she said, and Moore couldn't help but hear an edge of bitter resentment in that tone, "least of all _you_. The last time we trusted you with _anything_-" The Sentinel reigned herself in slightly. Then, "Whether or not my father still thinks highly of you, I don't. So you'd better have a damn good reason for all this."

"Seems you've got quite the fanbase," Moore remarked, raising an eyebrow, the comment earning a pointed look from the courier.

The Sentinel paused. "Who's that with you? Is there someone else there?"

"There is, yes," Moore replied, in spite of seeing uncertainty flare up in the younger woman's expression. "As for who I am, I'd rather not say, if it's all the same to you. I'm the one who told our... mutual acquaintance, here, to accept your call in the first place. The device you're transmitting to _used_ to be in Ms. Santangelo's possession, but it's since traded hands, for reasons that aren't entirely clear. Either way, I can at least confirm that the woman you spoke to prior to this is quite real."

"You'll forgive me if I decide to take that with a grain of salt," Lyons said flatly.

"I'd be surprised if you didn't," Moore said, glancing towards Kette with an arched eyebrow. "As it stands, I feel I have to apologize for Hazhir's method of greeting you, Sentinel. I insisted she make contact when we heard your initial transmission, and while it seemed at the time that her attempt at deception was necessary, I can see that there's some- problematic mutual history that caused more trouble than I'd anticipated."

"I don't know that I'd call it 'mutual,'" the Sentinel replied icily. "Though the way she's liable to tell it, I'm sure it certainly sounds that way."

Kette looked down at the ground for a moment, arms crossing over her chest, lips tightening slightly.

"This is the first I've heard about her connections outside the region," Moore said, "so I wouldn't know what her take on it is in the first place. ...You _are_ outside the region, aren't you?"

"She really hasn't told you much of anything, has she?" Lyons said, nearing on sardonic. "Typical."

Moore turned her gaze to Kette, then, questioning, muting the transmission using the switch she'd seen Kette operate to accept the call as the Sentinel went on about _why_ it was 'typical' to ask, "Care to fill in some of the blanks?"

"They're based in Washington, DC," Kette replied grudgingly, reluctant to raise her eyes. "Same as I used to be."

Another surprise- one Moore had to ignore for the time being, in favor of more immediate lines of questioning. "They," she repeated. "Brotherhood?"

Kette nodded, confirming the suspicion- and raising all the more questions for it.

"The plot thickens," Moore said under her breath, resuming their side of the transmission to say, "While I'm inclined to agree," in spite of the fact that she had no idea what kind of slurs the Sentinel had been throwing out, "I'm a little more curious about Veronica's reasons for contacting you. You mind telling me what the purpose of that was?"

"That's none of your concer-" Lyons paused suddenly. There was the sound of chatter coming through, muted and indecipherable, the brief silence that followed broken by a flatly stated, "One second..." The silence stretched on for a moment, then, "I've been told," she said grudgingly, "that I should ask if Kette contacted my father in recent months. If she did, she'll know what I'm talking about."

Looking up at the eyebot, Kette chewed on the inside of her lip, nodding slightly when Moore looked in her direction.

"That's an affirmative," Moore said, fixing Kette with a curious look- one that the courier turned her eyes away from.

"Son of a bitch," Lyons hissed. "Of all the people to- How'd you manage it, Kette? You find some way to leverage him?"

"Look, no matter what you're thinking," Kette said, frustrated, "I didn't _leverage_ him for anything. Your dad told me I had a favor I could call in for all the time I spent getting _your_ radiation meds, and..." Beat. "Veronica needed a place to go," the courier continued, voice easing. "I didn't want to ask him, I _know_ I had no place to, but I had to do _something_..."

There was a lengthy pause, then. "Odd to hear that you did something _charitable_, for once," Lyons said grudgingly, "but that at least confirms what he told us- and why he refused to tell me who his 'old friend' was." Beat. "Seems a little too fitting that it's _your_ fault we've been stuck in a holding pattern for the past couple _months_... Not sure how worthwhile it's been, since we're talking about a girl _you_ vouched for, but whether or not we go after her isn't my call to make."

"Just..." Kette sighed, shaking her head slightly. "I know you may not give a damn about my opinion, anymore, but this isn't about me. It's about her. So- just... don't... put anything I've done on her shoulders. She deserves better than that."

Another pause. "Fair enough," Lyons said. "Just realize that whatever 'faith' I put in her is solely for her sake... _not_ yours."

"I know," Kette replied, nodding, her expression drained- somber. "I figured..."

Silence.

Breaking the awkward pause that followed with a faint clearing of her throat, Moore interjected dryly with, "Sorry I have to cut in on this incredibly touching moment, but, I need to get some additional information from Ms. Hazhir before we can proceed. Are you able to receive transmissions over the next half-hour to an hour, Sentinel, or is your time limited?"

"I'd advise against sending any transmissions out," Lyons replied, "but if it's absolutely necessary, I can get back in contact with you. Assuming you have some information we can put to use."

"That's what I'll be attempting to determine," Moore said. "Chances are, we will- but, as I said, I'd like to clarify a few things before I give you anything more on that."

"Good luck with that," Lyons said dryly. "'Clarity' isn't something she's particulalry good at."

"I'm aware," Moore said, unable to keep a faint smile from tugging on her lips. "But, with any luck, I should know, by the time we hear from you again, what assistance we can provide you. This... rescue operation, whatever you'd like to call it, is going to require a bit more than just a reliable means of conveyence."

"Of course it will," Lyons sighed. "Alright," she conceded grudgingly, "I'll try to establish contact in the next half hour. If I don't hear anything, I'll make a second attempt in an hour's time. Past that, I can't promise anything."

"I'll look forward to hearing from you, Sentinel."

"Just don't take it the wrong way when I say, the feeling's not mutual. And just for the record, the next time we establish contact? I expect to hear a name."

"We'll see," Moore replied, hearing the brief burst of static that signified the line cutting out. Turning to Kette, at that, she rased an eyebrow and said, "Washington, DC?" her question earning a slow nod. "You're quite a ways from home." To that, she got another nod, and little else. "So," she continued, "how about you fill me in on who we're dealing with? Clearly they're not your run-of-the-mill chapter if Veronica felt comfortable enough to contact them, but I'd prefer to know a bit more before I give them anything specific."

"What could you 'give them,' exactly?"

"I'll get to that," Moore replied, "_after_ you answer my question."

Already raw from the rather... blunt manner in which Sarah had addressed her, Kette looked, for a moment, like she was determined to take the petulent route. Instead, she shook her head, and let out a faint sigh.

"They're exiles," Kette replied. "Outcasts. They got cut off from the main Brotherhood outposts a long time ago... back when their Elder decided to go native. Veronica knew about them before I ever told her anything... she just doesn't know that I knew any of 'em personally."

"And the Sentinel," Moore said, "who is she in all of this?"

"The Elder's daughter," Kette said. "Actually, if you didn't automatically hate anything that walked around in power armor, I'd say you might even like her. You two aren't too different from one another..."

"Given how fast she shot you down?" Moore replied. "I like her well enough already." Beat. "What's that about, anyway?"

Kette frowned. "I don't see how it's any of your business," she muttered, arms crossing a little tighter over her chest, making her posture appear all the more defensive.

"It is if it jeopardizes any attempt to get Veronica out of the area," Moore pointed out, head canting slightly to the side, eyebrow raised to punctuate her line of inquiry.

"It won't," Kette said, shaking her head. "Sarah's- not the type to defy orders. If the Elder told her to get Veronica, that's what she's gonna do."

"You're positive?"

Kette nodded again, looking towards the floating eyebot, which, thankfully, had maintained its silence. For once, even the courier didn't seem too interested in hearing some of ED-E's more... choice phrases, her mood greatly diminished.

For a moment, Moore was uncertain of whether she should feel sorry for the girl, or be all the more wary of her.

[...]

"I have to hand it to her," Jameson said as the line went dead, "she can be quite resourceful when she puts her mind to it."

"Yeah," Sarah said, unimpressed. "Too bad she couldn't have been 'resourceful' when it counted."

Jameson sighed, seating herself alongside the Sentinel to look at her pointedly. "You do realize that her assistance was a matter of choice, don't you?" she said. "She had no obligation to help-"

"-Yes," Sarah said sharply, "she did. And now, thanks to her, we're stuck out here, for _god knows_ how much longer..."

"I'd wager to say that has as much to do with our hosts," Jameson observed, "as it does with your father's orders." Beat. "Listen... I realize you're upset. I was, too, for some time, believe me..."

"If we'd gotten those damn satellite codes," Sarah said, "we would've been spared a lot of casualties. Would've been no reason to-"

"-I know, Sarah," Jameson sighed. "I know. I don't fault you for being angry... but for the sake of what may end up being a very worthwhile addition to our chapter, I think it'd be best if you set aside your resentment."

"Worthwhile addition," Sarah repeated, staring at the wall in front of her. "We barely know anything about this girl," she said. "And if Kette's the one to vouch for her reliability?" She let out a sigh, then, raising her hands to rub at her eyes. "What the hell was my father thinking?" she said under her breath, letting her hands come to rest on the table the radio sat on, fingers tapping absently against the receiver.

"That in spite of her mistakes," Jameson said, "she was still able to help us out in a way many wouldn't have been able to. I'm sure the fact that she was a pivotal part of your recovery had a lot to do with it, as well."

"I'd like to think his reasons go beyond the sentimental," Sarah replied. "Yes, she did help- but she caused more problems than anyone I've ever called an 'ally.'"

Jameson paused, at that. "I suppose you have a point," she said gently. "But what do you propose we do about it?"

To that, Sarah just shook her head slightly, a frown evident on her expression. "I don't know," she said. "I'm not going against the Elder's decision, though... however misguided it may be."

"You'd be well within your right to challenge it," Jameson pointed out, however reluctantly. "To him personally, of course."

"He won't listen," Sarah replied, frustrated. "Once he's made up his mind about 'favors,' it's hard to get him to change it."

"So we'll have to trust that Kette can be taken at her word," Jameson said, "and that your father's instincts aren't as... misguided as you seem to think they are."

"I know." A silence settled between them, both women looking at the radio quietly. Then, looking to curb some of her rising agitation by turning her thoughts away from the young Vault dweller, Sarah said, "That woman we heard," eyes turning to Jameson curiously. "What do you make of her? The one who offered 'assistance.'"

"Guarded," Jameson replied. "Cautious... which is probably for the best. If the device Scribe Santangelo was using to transmit was compromised in any way, or if they suspect it's been tampered with, it's better that they didn't give much in the way of identification."

"You don't suppose she's with the Mojave chapter, do you?"

Jameson frowned. "That would pose quite a problem, wouldn't it?"

Sarah nodded. "For all we know, they apprehended Santangelo and seized whatever equipment she was using to establish communications in the first place. Kette could have-"

"Ah," Jameson interrupted. "I think I know where you're going with this... and while I agree the girl is rather unreliable at times, I sincerely doubt that she'd be that malicious. She _did_ help ensure your good health, after all... whether or not you choose to recognize that fact."

"She didn't do much for the 'health' of our men," Sarah replied, sneering. "But, fine... I suppose you're right." Beat. "Still feels like we're practically walking into an ambush, though."

"You said that about coming here, too."

"And was I wrong?"

"In part," Jameson said. "But only in part." She paused. "So... I ask again... where does that leave us?"

"I don't-" Turning her head to look towards the door at the sound of heavy footsteps, Sarah raised a hand as if to stave off any added comments, thumbing towards the threshold as a shadow cast through the hallway outside.

The General. Jameson was in no way surprised to see the large robot, though she was none too pleased to see him pause, as he had before, at the threshold.

"General," Sarah said uncertainly. "Something we can do for you?"

No answer- just like before. Though Jameson refrained from comment, she gave a subtle nod in response to a questioning look from the Sentinel, as if to confirm just that. He was as quiet as ever, stock-still, save for those long talons clicking and scraping together reflexively. Unlike before, however... _this_ time, he opted to speak, in a voice neither of the two women had heard before.

"You've done enough," he said, perfectly congenial. "I mean that. It's been a pleasure having you here... but I'm afraid I need to ask more of you."

"Ex.. cuse me?" Sarah said, bemused. "Did... you do something to your voice module?"

"Nothing at all," the robot assured her. "You haven't heard me before, but I've always been here. A quiet observer, but an observer all the same."

"And who are you?" Jameson asked.

"It doesn't matter," the General- or whoever was speaking for him- replied. "All you need to know is that this is my home, and yours... with a new addition on the way. And on that... I'm afraid I have to impose upon you to go through with this- is it a rescue? A recruitment? Whatever it is, I'd appreciate you completing the retrieval, in spite of your misgivings. We'll be sure you're well equipped for the journey, so that any potential opposition you might run up against is of no consequence. Oh, though I suppose I should mention... it'd be optimal if you brought her here, with you."

The claws jerked and seized erratically, then, that same reflexive tic; Sarah could see Jameson tense at the sound out of the corner of her eye.

"And if we don't?" Sarah hedged, eyebrow raised, ignoring the sharp look she earned from the scribe alongside her.

"You will," the General assured her. "After all this time, doing anything else would just seem... rude."

Sarah blinked. "_Rude?_" she repeated, eyebrows raised.

There was no answer.

Until, as if waking from hibernation, the General jerked upright, glancing between the two women. If it was possible for a pair of eyes to look momentarily confused, the robot was managing it in spades. The same went for the moment of dawning realization.

"Well," he said, his gruff voice restored. "That's it, then. You're in the shit now, like it or not."

"General-"

"If you go through the motions, though," he continued, "just play it like you ought to, everything'll be just fine. Best just to take the opportunity for what it's worth."

"But-"

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" the General barked. "Listen, ladies, you don't have a choice, here. What the man says, goes... but he'll leave you alone when he thinks you're doing right by him. You quit fucking around like you have been, you might be surprised by how things turn out."

"This is absurd," Sarah said, incredulous. "You can't expect us to-"

"I don't," the General interrupted again. "But if you wanna get out of this with those pretty hides of yours in one piece, you'd do well to listen to me."

Neither of them were able to get a word in edgewise. The robot turned, and departed, lumbering back down the hallway he came from, leaving both women looking sidelong at one another, uncertain of what just happened.

[...]

A half-hour later, the call came in like clockwork, much to Kette's apparent dismay. Moore could hardly fault the girl for her discomfort, though it only raised her sense of curiosity as to why, exactly, there was so much bad blood betwene her and the Sentinel.

Instead of relying on Morse this time, there was a standard voice request to transmit, then- "Hazhir?"

"I'm here," Kette said. "We're here."

"What've you got for us?"

Lyons sounded- anxious, Moore noted, more so than she had before. "I've decided that it'd be in everyone's best interests if we gave you the help you needed," she said. "But to do that, we'll need to maintain regular communications, if at all possible... keeping in mind that you'll only be able to contact me at some very specific times throughout the week."

"Understood."

Moore paused for a moment, considerate. Then, "I'm going to give you a frequency- one you'll be using from here on out. There are certain precautions that need to be taken, under the circumstances... I don't want your arrival to be broadcast across the entire Mojave."

"Neither do I, believe me." A pause, then, "And it'd be helpful to have a name I can call you by."

"The next time we speak, I'll tell you everything you need to know," Moore replied. "But right now, I'd rather not take any chances."

By her estimation, she'd taken plenty as-is. Whether or not this was a 'rogue' faction, with or without Kette's assurances, the fact remained: she was dealing directly with members of the Brotherhood. If the circumstances under which she was forced to weren't so damn sad, she might have found it outright laughable. Might find it laughable, in due time.

"Just so long as I'm able to reach you," Lyons replied. "We've had a hell of a time keeping tabs on Scribe Santangelo."

"Former scribe," Moore said.

"Former? She told us..." Beat. "Is that why she hasn't been available?"

"More or less," Moore replied, glancing towards Kette curiously; this time, her look was returned. "I'm not entirely clear on the circumstances of that departure, save that there were some... ethical disputes that both sides found insurmountable."

"Makes sense," Lyons said. "She sounded like she was in some trouble when we last contacted her."

"Her departure won't be a deterrent, will it?"

"Not at all," Lyons replied. "Not that we have much of a choice on whether or not we come to 'collect.'"

"What do you mean by that?"

There was a low chuckle, then, humorless; almost bemused. "Let's just say, we both have things we can't say over an open channel," Lyons said. "Either way, now would be a good time to give me that frequency."

[...]

The transmission terminated, Moore and Kette both were left with a moment of awkward silence settling between them. Kette, half-leaned against one of the heavy front doors, arms crossed, her gaze trained intently on the ground at her feet, looked no more ready to ask questions about the unlikely alliance Moore had struck than Moore was to ask how the younger woman's mood was faring. Not that the latter question needed to be raised, as the answer was self-evident. 'Unhappy' didn't even begin to describe Kette's expression. Uninterested though she was in hearing about the depths of the courier's foul mood, Moore was nonetheless curious about the revelations that had cut it down so suddenly, but it was a curiosity she had little time, nor inclination to indulge at that moment.

It was with that in mind that she said, "I've got some things I need to take care of," breaking the silence before it turned awkward, "so I'll leave you to whatever it is you do here," a loose gesture afforded to their surroundings. "That said, I'll expect to hear back from you either later tonight or tomorrow evening, though I'd appreciate it if you left a message with the embassy prior to 1900 hours." Letting her hand come to rest on the door handle, she got as far as, "And-" when Kette's hand came down on her arm, the courier's grip surprisingly urgent. Arching an eyebrow, glancing between the unauthorized contact and the young woman's face, Moore cleared her throat gently, "-And now you're touching me," stated flatly, her eyebrow raised in question. "Care to tell me why?"

"Could you just stay for a moment?" Kette said, anxious. "I don't like how this ended..."

Looking at the young woman impatiently, Moore said, "You'll like it a lot less if you don't get your hands off me."

Raising her hands in surrender, Kette said, "Sorry," sullenly. "I didn't- mean anything by it."

"_-why wont*a little wishful thinking*say anything that makes*the ass*twist_ **our** _case of_ **cakes**," ED-E chimed in, the insertion earning an irritable look from Kette.

"Alright," Kette sighed, "so that does get old after a while. I just wanted to say that-"

"-_to piss_ **those** _innards_ **on top of*that** _boy_," ED-E continued, "**punch** _that_ **Hamburger**."

Moore arched an eyebrow; this time, it was her turn to suppress a smile. "Really," she said. "How do you suppose I should take that? As insult, or instruction?"

Kette huffed, flustered, a hard stare turned towards the eyebot. "Will you-" Her lips tightened into a thin line. "Just..." she let out another short sigh, barking, "_go in the corner_ or something?" at her ever-grinning robotic sidekick, hands waving as if to swat off a swarm of flies.

Undeterred, the eyebot said, "_Vomit*your head in_ **seeds**. **Seeds**."

"I don't think it's listening," Moore remarked dryly. "To you, _or_ your interpretive dance." Taking the opportunity to again take hold of the door handle, she said, "Maybe if you tried saying 'bees' more often it'd consider paying atten-" and paused, finding her progress blocked by that same hand on her arm. Quirking her lip slightly, she said, "Do you- have a death wish I should be aware of?" tone nearing on incredulity.

"What?" Catching Moore's glance down towards the hand on her arm, Kette withdrew suddenly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-" A beat; then a sigh, the courier's frustration evident in her voice. "I just don't like feeling like I disappointed you."

"You'll get over it," Moore said, resisting the urge to go with the exasperated, knee-jerk response that sprang to mind. "Now, if you don't mind-"

"I just don't want what happened _there_ to happen _here_," Kette blurted out. "Seriously, do you have any idea what it's like to have half a city- half a _state_ hate your guts? I mean-"

As the courier paused to rethink that comment, Moore fought the urge to laugh, instead saying, "No," in a straight deadpan, "I have no idea what that's like. Couldn't conceive of it if I tried."

"I said that wrong," Kette said under her breath. "All I was trying to say was that... it feels like it's happening again, and if I can, I'd like to make sure it doesn't." She paused, then, brow furrowed, a puzzled expression on her face.

Moore arched her eyebrows in question. "What?"

"I'm just wondering what's so funny," Kette said, visibly unsure of whether she should be insulted or not.

It took her a moment to realize she was smiling, and it took a concerted effort to forcibly tame her expression. "Nothing," she said, sobering. "Get some rest, Kette. If you need someone to talk to, I'm sure Ms. Santangelo wouldn't mind hearing from you. And for the record? If you put half as much energy into keeping up with your obligations as you do with your ridiculous sideshows? You'd be well on your way to making people wonder if, maybe, their assumptions about your apparent unreliability were wrong."

She parted ways with the young woman on that note, and this time, the courier didn't attempt to block her progress. A good thing, all told, as the moment the doors closed, and Moore was both out of earshot and away from the crowds that bustled through the Strip, she began to laugh. As overwrought as she was by the circumstances that had brought her here in the first place, had made her forge an alliance with relative unknowns from a faction that, no matter how 'rogue,' she'd spent the better part of her life hating vehemently, something about the exchange had turned the air thin. In that moment, she couldn't help but appreciate the absurdity of it.

And, in knowing that such moments would be few and far between over the next few months, she allowed for it, however briefly the good humor remained


	23. The Sentries: Interlude II

He felt it.

It moved like a wave over his nerves, made him antsy.

_It was happening_. Beginning, slowly, the unseen cascade set into motion.

He couldn't restrain a shout of exhilaration, couldn't resist the urge to speak of what he'd sensed on the breeze, but it was, as ever, incoherent; a bubbling groan in place of a joyful noise.

Those around him turned in his direction, those with sightless eyes inclining their heads towards the sound. Some answered back, as incapable of commanding their voices as he. It was an annoyingly common phenomena that followed his every attempt to verbalize his thoughts; invariably his efforts would invite an answer, at which point an idiot conversation amidst his peers would arise, guttural sounds rising from each one of them in daft mimicry of one another.

Irritated, he climbed out of the pit he called home and made his way down the cracked pavement of a winding road. There was a voice that understood down the path, one that had become attuned to him; one that answered his entreaties with something more than bleats and growls. And while it was tempting to seek the company of that voice, he knew better than to give in so easily.

As with every other time the urge struck, it was calmed with the same inward reminder: that he had waited this long. That a little more time amidst the throng of drooling invalids he shared space with was just a passing annoyance.

The road that lay ahead... it was worth waiting for.

The voice knew it; he knew it.

And up here, from his vantage point, he could see it. Could see the swaths of land that lay ahead of him, tawny sand painted ruddy by the light of the setting sun. Could see the mountain peaks in the distance, the snow that reflected gold during the day, silver blue by the light of the moon. Observing it, he felt as though the oncoming rush of emotion would bid his heart to burst; felt anticipation like a tangible force swilling endlessly in his thoughts.

It was so close, but still... it was too soon.

Letting out what passed for a sigh, the sound grating to his senses, he turned back to the flyblown pits, and made his way back inside. To sleep, if possible.

To dream.


	24. So Much For Getting A Good Night's Sleep

So, after this part, you're all officially updated. Hopefully I'll kick my own ass to finish this eventually, I just HHHAAATE the pacing at the beginning. I think I've found a way around it, but it'll more or less require this part, and the corresponding version of this, to become its own story- so expected 'PART DEUX' to show up as its own thing soon. People can reference back to this as 'slew of backstory' if they want to.

ONWARD.

* * *

><p><strong>[<strong> 29 **::** So Much For Getting a Good Night's Sleep **]**

* * *

><p><em>Kette,<em>

_How are you? I'm doing quite well, under the circumstances._

_My apologies. One would think, after so many instances of realizing that the question isn't likely to be answered anytime soon, I'd forego asking. Even if, at some point, you find these letters, if I could somehow send them off to you, it seems rather pointless... I've already asked you that question more than a dozen times prior to this. I like to think you're doing well, that wherever your life has taken you, the journey's treated you kindly. Others may not feel the same, but I'm not inclined to share their perspective._

_You'd be surprised, I think, to know how much I've written to you over the past few years. It's enough to fill a book. Actually, your friend, Moira, saw one of these letters on accident none too long ago, during one of my visits to your home in Megaton. She'd taken note of the folder I was carrying, stuffed to overflowing with past correspondence, and asked if I was attempted to write a novel. As we spoke, one of the pages slipped out, and she caught a glimpse of your name at the top of the page. When she learned I was writing you, she was so tickled by the idea of passing on her regards that I didn't have the heart to tell her I wasn't actually sending them along to you. She says an enthusiastic 'hello,' by the way, and she asked whether or not you could still see a smiley face? I'm not sure what that means, but she said you would._

_I hope to one day get the chance to ask you about that in person._

_Thinking on that, I don't believe I ever told you why I chose this method of keeping my thoughts in order. Hopefully you won't feel offended or be made uneasy by me saying this, should you ever see these, but... writing to you, imagining I may some day have an audience in you, makes it easier. There are other reasons, of course... I do miss you a great deal, and feel, sometimes, that you'd be warmed to know that's the case, though that may just be wishful thinking on my part. If not, I think you'd at least be pleased to see that I've become quite adept with my penmanship. I don't 'fatfinger' the pencils, as you so indelicately phrased it, or smear the words with my hand as often, and the words are legible. _

_I've also come quite a ways with the 'voice training' you so often suggested to me. I find that strangers react quite differently to me these days... they find me easier to talk to, now that I sound more like them. I've even become accepted in many of the communities that had once viewed me as a threat. Though I was reluctant to take your advice initially, the experience has been quite rewarding. So... thank you, for that._

_I'd say more about it, but, there are more pressing matters I've been meaning to write to you about. Something very strange has been happening here, something very few people are able to explain, much less understand. It started some time ago, but it's only recently come to a head. Where it goes from here, I can't say... we knew to be wary, but when we heard news that something had 'happened' to Little Lamplight, it became apparent that we were facing something much larger than what we'd initially anticipated..._

[...]

Seated at the entrance of Big Town, his feet kicked up on the jury-rigged fence that surrounded the settlement, Joseph idly watched the sunset, content to take in the cool breeze. It wouldn't be long before autumn came, his sixth since leaving Little Lamplight behind. At first, the transition to living outside, to being out in the open, had been a little jarring, however well-prepared he'd told himself he'd been for it, and the journey to Big Town itself had come as a surprise. Alone, equipped with very little in the way of weapons or supplies, he had only his wits to rely on, and a poor sense of direction besides. At nights, he bed down in abandoned shelters, reading what few books he chanced bringing with him to ease his anxiety- by day, he continued on, careful to avoid those paths that had clearly been tread by animals, or raiders. Those encounters he'd nearly had, he outran; the rest of the threats, he'd had the good luck to avoid entirely.

Mercifully, he'd made it, which was more than he could say for some of the young adults that would eventually follow. On that, he liked to tell himself that they'd found other settlements to occupy, that the wastes hadn't been so unkind to them that they'd succumbed, be it to predators, or to the elements. Those young men and women of Big Town didn't bother to contest him on it, either; they seemed to believe that pointing out the obvious would place too great a burden on his shoulders, and in a way, they were right. It wasn't as though he didn't know, full well, what the truth of the matter was, but it took several years before he'd confessed to Kimba, on one of those first few nights she'd invited him into her bed, that he feared that the children who'd once been under his watch, now ready to strike out on their own, were either dead, or captured.

She didn't bother to correct him, or ease his mind; she'd just wrapped her arms around him and rest her forehead against his shoulder, telling him again the litany of reasons she'd taken such a strong liking to him to begin with. He'd reminded her that it'd taken her nearly three years to show it, but she hushed him in the best way she knew how- with intimacies, the affections she lavished on him warm and appreciative. Afterwards, listening to her breathing as she drifted off to sleep, he found his thoughts returning to his earlier confession, however relaxed she'd made him, however content he'd been.

In the days that followed, he was grateful to find that the confession had served as a method of alleviating the burden he'd needlessly clung to for so long. He was reminded of it from time to time, of course, by the arrival of some of the youths he'd known during his time in Little Lamplight- now young adults themselves- that had survived the journey to Big Town. They would ask to see their old friends, and in them, in their responses to finding out that some of them hadn't arrived safely, he saw a reflection of his own initial despair. It allowed him to give them some solace, however little there was to offer, and as their grief waned, so, too, did his lingering concerns. Curiously, the only other time he found himself dwelling on those unfortunate truths were on nights like tonight, where the days were getting shorter, the nights longer, the air brisk with the displaced scent of hickory smoke.

Normally, he would offered up a few internalized words of remembrance to those that had been lost, and allow the thoughts to fade- but tonight, those thoughts had an answer, not long after he began to doze in the chair he occupied. The sound of footsteps, a great many of them, and the sound of voices just shy of familiar, ones that had changed with age. Opening his eyes, he raised to his feet and was startled to see not one, not two, but an entire group of teenagers making their way towards the settlement's entrance, headed up by a young man he'd thought had succumbed to the wastes, as well, however unlikely it had seemed: RJ MacReady, now seventeen, his face, his sneer, too recognizable to be doubted.

Inwardly, Joseph wasn't surprised that MacReady had remained past the usual age of dismissal; he didn't put it past the boy to change the rules of Little Lamplight in his favor. But that wasn't at the forefront of his mind; what _was_, was the reasons behind their sudden appearance. It was a question he didn't need to ask; instead of offering a greeting, MacReady instead, offered a short, but succinct, explanation.

"Place turned into a fucking nightmare," he said, the stern look in his eyes barely covering for the very real uneasiness Joseph saw in them, "and there's no fucking way we're going back."

[...]

_I'd venture to say that if the refugees of Little Lamplight hadn't stopped by Arefu on their way to Big Town, we might not have heard about their mass exodus so quickly. _

_I should mention that, thanks in part to the mercenaries you paid to train the residents of Big Town on how to defend themselves, they've done quite well in the past four years. This last year, in fact, they've even become more productive. Instead of scraping by, they've undertaken agricultural pursuits, established trade with some of the other townships._

_Now, with a larger populace, I suspect their output will be lessened, but once they get their new citizens to work, their yields should be quite impressive. Unfortunately, as with everything else, their good fortune has come at a higher price than just the loss of their sanctuary._

_I don't know if you recall, but Big Town's need for better defenses stemmed largely from frequent supermutant attacks. Those have stopped, but not because the town has proven itself too dangerous to assault openly. No... it's because they mutants themselves are absent, the reasons for which I find quite troubling. They've been afflicted with a disease of some kind, one that's dulled their senses... made them behave strangely. This pathogen, whatever its origins, started slowly at first, but once it sunk its claws into its first few victims, it took root and spread like wildfire. A scientist in Rivet City claims it's because of the unique strain of FEV that transformed them in the first place, but has little answers as to why, or how, it's spread so quickly. _

_Very few mutants have been left uninfected, and they do their best to hide from their brothers and sisters, for reasons I'll spare you for the time being. Suffice it to say that those that aren't afflicted have taken to finding homes that are well removed from their usual haunts, places that haven't treated them kindly; foraging for food in hunting grounds that provide very little has taken its own toll. As a result, I saw my first casualty of starvation among the mutant populace. It wasn't a pretty sight... not in the least. It seems that if you starve lesser mutants, they can be driven to self-cannibalize._

_That... highly unpleasant experience aside, this new development has been taken as something of a blessing by many, though others, like myself, remain uncertain. I'm grateful to hear that some groups out there, people with the training and resources to keep track of the mutants, have been making it a point to observe them from a distance, to learn more about the affliction. Doctors that have had time to study samples of infected tissue say that there is little indication that the pathogen could spread to humans, but they want to keep the mutants under close observation in case that changes._

_The Brotherhood has taken a particularly keen interest in this undertaking. I've wondered if, like Eden, they had originally hoped to weaponize the pathogen, but that doesn't seem like their 'style,' if you will. Those men and women that work with them, mercenary units that you might be familiar with, probably wouldn't mind if that were the eventual outcome, of course, but even they have found the nature of the disease disconcerting. _

_Not that I blame them. The changes it brings about in its victims are nothing short of dramatic, and there's been no sign that the process is nearing completion..._

[...]

From her vantage point overlooking Seward Square and the many of the ruined buildings of a once lively nation's Capital- a location that had always proved to be a central hub for the mutants, one close to home- Reilly kept her eyes on the small grouping of brutes out in the distance. Beside her, Donovan kept closer watch through a pair of binoculars, while she picked idly at what passed for a stale cram sandwich, hating every minute of it. Brick, having taken the night watch, dozed lightly, one arm slung around Eugene, the precarious positioning forcing Reilly to check every once in a while to make sure the minigun's safeties were all in place.

So far as jobs went, the contract Reilly's Rangers held with the Brotherhood of Steel was a cushy one. It paid well, gave them some direction that they'd lacked after their fateful run through the Statesmen Hotel; had allowed Reilly to ease back into her professional life after the deaths of two of her colleagues, Theo and Butcher, had damn near convinced her to drop out of the game entirely. Donovan's connections to the Brotherhood, as well as the recommendation from the Vault brat, the one that had refused to give them much of any assistance when Reilly had asked for the young woman's help, had secured them the job, and the three rangers that remained saw little reason not to take it.

Their first order of business had been to take out the supermutants, but recently their priorities had shifted rather dramatically. The mutants, suffering from an infection of some kind, were undergoing changes not even the most learned observers understood. True, whatever it was had greatly diminished the level of violence being regularly inflicted upon some of the smaller communities, and true, their presence in the ruins themselves was hardly as much of a threat anymore, but...

It was ominous, in many respects, though for those who weren't directly observing the brutes, their new affliction was a welcome relief. Tasked with keeping tabs on the movements of the packs that had formed and, on occasion, tracking them when they'd left the dead city to find out where they were migrating to, Reilly and her comrades had been on board with the local consensus that the dwindling number of attacks was a good thing... until they heard about refugees from Little Lamplight flooding into Big Town. At that point, the so-called blessing in disguise had taken on an entirely different tone. It was something Reilly chose to her ignore, focusing instead on what was in front of her, preferring to let the Brotherhood take up the burden of speculation.

There was plenty to see in that respect. Aside from the curious behaviour that the brutes displayed on a daily basis, the were the physical signs of disease were impossible to miss. Of sloughing skin, raised lesions and tumorous masses, Reilly had seen plenty, and after what was nearing on almost half a year of constant exposure to the sight, she found herself getting slowly, mercifully desensitized to it. The overpowering, yet wholly unplaceable scent that rolled off the ruined hides of the mutants, however, was another matter entirely. It was almost sulfuric, like a struck match, not entirely _bad_, but it overwhelmed the senses. Some, like Donovan, were completely incapable of breathing it in without retching immediately, a couple of his more... explosive bouts of vomiting nearly calling undue attention to the Rangers' position. Others, like Brick and Reilly, felt themselves become oddly agitated by overexposure, with occasional bouts of dizziness that were combined with fierce waves of nausea, though neither of them had as overblown a reaction as Donovan.

Needless to say, those first few months of working alongside the Brotherhood to observe the nature of the 'new' mutant threat, if indeed it _was_ a threat, had been a true test of both her and her colleagues' mettle. They were no strangers to the grotesqueries of wasteland life, but this? This was different. Different enough that the Brotherhood continued to pay her and her comrades to simply watch, and learn from the populations that lingered within the DC ruins, a task they performed dutifully, however boring it might have been at times.

After doing another quick inspection of where Brick's hand was in relation to Eugene's firing mechanisms, Reilly raised her binoculars to look out the smashed wall of the walkway her team had taken up position in, catching sight of a small group of mutants shambling through the square. Their jerky movements were complimented by attempts to communicate, sounds she'd heard before and could never decipher; thick, bubbling, incoherent grunts and calls that were as stomach-churning as their appearance. According to a young merc they'd occasionally worked with to fend off the Talons, a woman by the name of Sydney, the mutants didn't always sound like that. She'd reported at least one instance of crooning sounds, oddly melodic, almost soulful- though she'd admitted that, at the time, she'd had enough to drink that the memory could be called into question.

"Could be it was just my imagination running away with me," she'd said, shrugging. "'Least... I hope it was. The whole thing was damned creepy... can't even really place _why_."

The detail had seemed negligible, considering, but Reilly had reported it to the Brotherhood contacts, all the same. What they did with it was their problem, not hers.

As for the mutants she observed presently, they were doing much of the same things she'd seen over the last few months. They moved like they were in a daze, sometimes on their own, sometimes collectively, as if all following the same impulse- mindlessly idling, or wandering, it didn't matter. They didn't sleep, and rarely had she seen them eat. Some had simply collapsed in the streets, their bodies unable to take the strain put on them by both the infection, and the lack of resources. Those bodies had been tagged by traceable darts fired into the corpses, so that the Brotherhood could track them, take what samples they needed, and incinerate the remains. That was, if the live ones didn't find the body before the Paladins did- though what they did with their fallen brethren, Reilly wasn't sure. On at least one occasion, the tracking devices had lead the Brotherhood to live mutants, in spite of the fact that Reilly could have sworn the body they'd tagged had been dead for some time.

For her part, she chose to allow that she may have been mistaken in their assumptions- as the alternative was a little too gruesome to put much mind to.

"The hell?"

The words were absently stated, said just barely above a whisper. Looking up, she glanced over towards Donovan; his expression was intent, slightly confused, brow visibly furrowed. The kid had come a long way since the rooftop struggle at the Statesmen; complimenting his technical expertise was an innate skill as a spotter, his close attention to detail paying off on several occasions. True, he had a softer stomach than she might have liked, but he'd toughened in recent times, enough so that the look on his face made her curious.

"_Jesus_," he hissed, turning his eyes away from his point of focus rather abruptly.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, keeping her voice low, the nearby mutants that shuffled aimlessly through the area, though sluggish, still threatening enough to make her uneasy about calling attention to the small group.

"Just this one Frankenstein over here," he said, grimacing there. "The one that's just... kinda standing there." He puffed his cheeks and puffed out a slow breath, visibly fighting a wave of nausea. "Christ, that's just _wrong_..."

Taking up her own binoculars again, Reilly tried focusing in on the direction he pointed towards, upon locating the mutant in question, she found she wasn't entirely sure what she was looking at. True, the brute was standing still with the corpse of a dead mutant at his feet, and true, he showed all the tell-tale signs of disease that many of the others did, more so than most, but that hardly seemed to be worth the reaction Donovan had to it. The supermutant's head was tilted up slightly, and his breathing was hitched, peculiar. Every few heartbeats he drew in three short, labored breaths, throat seeming to bulge slightly with each exhale, a tongue coated white with sloughing flesh darting out to draw over his teeth. The hitches came more quickly-

"Here it comes," Donovan said tensely.

And indeed, there it was. The mutant's throat bulged suddenly, and he leaned over to disgorge a short burst of viscous fluid onto the body at his feet, thick ropes of the substance drooling from his ruined mouth once the convulsion ended. Where the fluid hit, the flesh of the corpse seemed to go slack, hanging loosely from the bones.

"_There!_" Donovan hissed. "Did you fucking see that?"

"The hell is he doing?" Reilly murmured, her question answered almost immediately- in the worst possible way. A piece of the loosened skin was drawn away from the body of the dead mutant... and _consumed,_ messily, the sight making Reilly deeply regret her decision to wolf down her food. "Holy shit... did he really just-?"

"Oh yes," Donovan said. "Yes, he did."

"What?" Brick chimed in, scurrying towards them, careful to prevent Eugene from tipping over as she raised to her feet. "Let me see."

Reilly handed the younger woman the pair of binoculars and pointed in the right direction, happy to be rid of the sight. "You gotta wait for it," she said. "Only seems to happen every once in a while."

Brick took a moment to locate the brute- and when she did, she said, "What's up with that guy at his feet? Looks like he had a rough day."

"You'll see," Reilly said grimly.

They fell silent again- and Reilly didn't need to ask when Brick saw what they'd reacted to. At first, the girl's jaw dropped, eyebrows arched- and then, as expected, her lips pulled back in an outright grimace.

"_What?_" Brick exclaimed, louder than she'd intended, over the attempts to shush her; thankfully, the mutants barely seemed to notice. "No way. _No fucking way,_ that is the _sickest_ thing I've ever-" She paused. "Aww, come _on_ man, that's just- ..._Aaawwww!_"

"Keep it down, will you?" Reilly hissed, nudging Brick's shoulder. "And give those back."

"Gladly," Brick said, expression registering pure disgust. "Fuck's sake, I should've stayed asleep."

"I shouldn't've eaten," Reilly replied under her breath, her binoculars raised just as Donovan lowered his.

"I don't think I can watch this anymore," Donovan choked, his voice thick, his eyes shutting as he scrubbed at his face with his hand. "Oh, man... so much for getting a good night's sleep tonight..."

It would've been the perfect time to jeer the poor kid, but Reilly didn't blame him one bit for wanting to turn his eyes away. Raising the binoculars herself, she watched as the mutant ate, painfully aware of the aftertaste of cram in her mouth, her lips pressed tightly together as if that might stave off any objections her stomach had to what she was seeing. Taking in a slow breath, she made it a point to mentally note the exaggerated distention of the brute's abdomen, the way his skinned seemed to crawl every time he paused in his deliberate consumption of his fallen brother.

Other mutants that passed saw the ritualistic way in which the atrocity was taking place and, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, had little reaction to it. Nor did they have much of a reaction to what happened next. Reilly, however, did. What was panning out in front of her was was like nothing she'd ever seen. Forcing Donovan and Brick both confirm that her eyes weren't lying to her, the event left the three of them in a state of palpable unease.

"Brick?" Reilly said tentatively.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Get the Citadel on the wire. _Now._"

[...]

_My traveling companion and I decided, knowing there'd been some changes in the nature of the affliction, that we'd venture as close to Vault 87 as we dared. We've seen clusters of mutants headed in that direction, all of them seeming to tread the same paths, as though they were in a trance. We haven't seen some of the more egregious deformities reported by the Brotherhood's scouts, but undoubtedly, we will, in due time._

_Conversely, the centaurs- my apologies for the tangent, I feel it'd be best to write this down before I forget... the centaurs have not shown any signs of infection, though they've seemed quite confused by the behaviour of their handlers. We heard one report of a centaur so desperate to locate its master that it ventured into human settlements. It was, of course, put down, but from what I'm lead to understand, it was in no way hostile, didn't attempt to defend itself when it was attacked. I think, perhaps, lacking in companionship, it wanted to die._

_I know they're rather grotesque creatures, but hearing about it... it almost seemed- perhaps sad isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can apply to it._

_As for the Vault... perhaps they, the mutants, go there to die. Perhaps they're too ashamed of what they've become to willingly subject themselves to the stares of people around them... gone back to where they were made. To a place that's familiar._

_Something sleeps inside that vault, I'm sure of it... something that scared the denizens of Little Lamplight enough to abandon a home they've held as a sanctuary for so many generations._

...

"More of them."

Pulled from his train of thought, Fawkes raised his head and set his pencil down, the large dog beside him- _her_ dog, he reminded himself- raising to its feet to stare intently in the direction its travel mates had their eyes trained on.

It didn't take him long to catch the peculiar smell on the breeze, the warning that trouble was approaching. Stuffing his pencil and paper into a rucksack beside him, he raised to his feet alongside the elderly mutant the Vault dweller had introduced him to, peering across the rolling valley to see a small pack of shambling forms in the distance.

"That's a larger group than usual," Fawkes observed, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "What do you make of it?"

"That they're too close," Leo replied, shielding his eyes from the bright rays of the setting sun. "We should get moving."

Fawkes didn't need to be told twice; he quickly fell in step behind the old mutant, the two of them pushing further south, into territories their brothers and sisters had been known to avoid. The thoughts he intended on writing down, he kept in the back of his mind as he glanced back towards the large grouping of migrants on the horizon, watched their forms get smaller as the two of them continued to move away.

Even at this distance, he couldn't shake the feeling that both he and Leo were tempting fate in a way they shouldn't, no matter how many precautions they'd taken to remain safe.

[...]

Once they'd reached a small alcove in hills, near caves that had once been occupied by tribes of raiders, Fawkes withdrew his pencil and paper, straining his eyes to focus on what he'd written before in the dim light of a fire Leo had started. The older mutant was content to remain in silence, had never taken it personally, and for that, Fawkes was grateful. For the husky's insistent attempts to gain affection, however, its entreaties causing a string of drool to stain the letter Fawkes had in hand, he was not so grateful.

Still, he made it a point to draw an arrow towards the smear, ruined lips quirked in what passed for a faint smile.

_Your dog says 'hello,'_ he wrote next to the arrow. _Kind of him, wouldn't you say?_

_Anyway... where was I? Ah... yes._

_That neither Leo nor I have been affected is a curiosity all its own, by my estimation, but we both know that it may only be a matter of time. At the moment, we do our best to keep several paces ahead of those afflicted, to wear what little protection we can in places we know the infected had tread...take as many precautions as we're able to, but..._

_If we knew how the disease was spread, perhaps we'd be put at ease, somehow..._

_In the event that the worst does come to pass, I'll see to it that these letters are placed on the desk you kept all of your correspondence in, should you ever return to your home in Megaton. Hopefully, you'll find them, and be able to keep what remains of me with you through whatever lies ahead of you in life._

He shook his head. Only when he was certain there was cause for concern would he burden the pages with the sentiment. For now, there were other things to make mention of, things that were less... pessimistic.

_On lighter subjects,_ he wrote, pausing briefly to offer the dog alongside him a couple pats on the head, _you'll be happy to know that the water caravans are continuing to deliver. I know you may not think highly of Officer Lepelletier, and... vice versa, to be fair, but she's done an incredible job of coordinating her men, and other communities have offered help where able. To tell you the truth, even with this dark shadow cast over all the recent progress, it's been a pleasure to see communities finally coming into their own._

_...I should close out this letter on that note. I'm in desperate need of food, and rest. It's been a long month, and I find that exhaustion only leads me to ponder things I shouldn't, least of all until we know more about what we're dealing with._

_Know that I've always kept you in mind, and my time with you will always be a comfort on these long nights of uncertainty._

_All my regards,_

_-Fawkes_


End file.
